CYPRESS and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column

strown In fragments, chok’d-up vaults, and frescoes

steep'd In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, Deeming it midnight: - Temples, baths, or

halls ? Pronounce, who can ; for all that learning reap'd From her research hath been, that these are

walls Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. 1



The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God pour'd thee from His “hollow hand,”
And hung His bow upon thine awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
“ The sound of many waters ;” and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep.

And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime ?

· The Palatine is one mass of ruins: the very soil is formed of crumbled brickwork.

Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side!
Yea, what is all the riot man can make
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar!
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him,
Who drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains ? a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.



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AMID the throng the Hermit stood ; so wan,
Careworn, and travel-soil'd; with genius high
Thron'd on his brow, shrin'd in his spiritual eye.
The hermit spake - and through the council ran
A tremor, not of fear; as in the van,
Chafing before embattled chivalry,
A proud steed listens for the clarion's cry,
So sprang they to their feet: and every man
Pontiff and prince, prelate and peer - caught up
Their swords, and kiss'd the crosier'd hilts, and

swore, As though their lips the sacramental cup Had touch'd, Christ's sepulchre to free! The

shore Of Asia heard that sound, in thunder hurld “Deus id vult,” from Clermont through the world.


How thick the wild-flowers blow about our feet,

Thick strewn and unregarded, which, if rare,

We should take note how beautiful they were, How delicately wrought, of scent how sweet; And mercies which do everywhere us meet,

Whose very commonness should win more praise,

Do for that very cause less wonder raise, And these with slighter thankfulness we greet. Yet pause thou often on life's onward way,

Pause time enough to stoop and gather one
Of these sweet wild flowers — time enough to tell

Its beauty over - this when thou hast done,
And mark'd it duly, then, if thou canst lay
It wet with thankful tears into thy bosom, well!



GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,

Catching your heart up at the feel of June,

Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, Wherever bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon,

Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ; Oh! sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine ; both, though small,

are strong As your clear hearts; and both seem giv'n to earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth!



Light for the dreary vales

Of ice-bound Labrador! Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails,

And the mariner wakes no more ; Lift high the lamp that never fails,

To that dark and sterile shore.

Light for the forest child !

An outcast though he be, From the haunts where the sun of his childhood


And the country of the free ;
Pour the hope of Heaven o'er his desert wild,

For what home on earth has he ?

Light for the hills of Grece !

Light for that trampled clime
Where the rage of the spoiler refus’d to cease

Ere it wreck'd the boast of time;
If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace,

Can ye grudge your boon sublime ?
Light on the Hindoo shed !

On the maddening idol-train;
The flame of the sutteel is dire and red,

And the fakir? faints with pain;
And the dying moan on their cheerless bed,

By the Ganges lav'd in vain.

The act of self-immolation, as practised by the Hindoo widows. The mode of burning is the same throughout India. The husband is directed by the physician, when there are no hopes of recovery, to be carried to the river side, and the wife then breaks a small branch from the mango tree, takes it with her, and proceeds to the body, where she sits down. The bar. ber paints the sides of her feet red; after which she bathes, and Light for the Persian sky!

The Sophi's wisdom fades,
And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy

Armour when Death invades;
Hark! hark !—'tis the sainted Martyn's 3 sigh

From Ararat's mournful shades. puts on her clothes. During these preparations the drum beats a certain sound, by which it is known that a widow is about to be burnt with the corpse of her husband. On hearing this, all the village assembles. A hole is dug in the ground, round which stakes are driven into the earth, and thick green stakes laid across to form a kind of bed, upon which are laid abundance of dry faggots, hemp, clarified butter, and other combustibles. The widow now presents her ornaments to her friends, ties some red cotton on both wrists, puts two new combs in her hair, paints her forehead, and puts some parched rice and cowries into the end of the cloth which she wears. While this is going forward, the dead body is anointed with clarified butter, and bathed, prayers are repeated over it, and it is dressed in new clothes : ropes and another piece of cloth are spread upon the pile. The widow walks seven times over the funeral pile, strewing parched rice and cowries, and then she ascends the pile, or rather throws herself upon it. To such an extent was this practice carried on, that in nine years, from 1815 to 1823, there were burnt in the Presidency of Bengal alone 5425 women.

. Eastern mendicants, who adopt some peculiar mode of penance or self-torture in order to excite public sympathy. Notwithstanding their pretended devotion, they live sumptuously, and amass great riches. It is related of Aurengzebe, that being told that the fakirs, notwithstanding their assumed destitution, were in possession of vast wealth and precious stones, which they were accustomed to conceal in the folds of their ragged attire, he invited a number of them to a splendid repast. At the conclusion of the entertainment, he ordered the attendants to bring in as many new dresses as there were fakirs, and turning to them, begged that they would at once exchange their rags for the more suitable attire which he presented to them. It will be easily supposed that the fakirs were unwilling to part with their old clothes, but Aurengzebe was peremptory, and compelled them to clothe themselves in the new dresses, and go forth with heavy hearts, deprived of the fruits of long years of hypocrisy and fraud.

3 After five years' missionary labour in India and Persia, he

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