The birds sing to him from the sunny tree,
And suppliantly the fierce-ey'd mastiff fawns
Beneath his feet, to court the playful touch.

To rise all rosy from the arms of sleep,

And, like the sky-bird, hail the bright-cheek'd morn
With gleeful song, then o'er the bladed mead
To chase the blue-wing'd butterfly, or play
With curly streams; or, led by watchful love,
To hear the chorus of the trooping waves,
When the young breezes laugh them into life!
Or listen to the mimic ocean-roar

That waves have buried in a sea-shell's depth;
From sight and sound to catch intense delight,
And infant gladness from each happy face,-
These are the guileless duties of the day:
And when at length reposeful evening comes,
Joy-worn he nestles in the welcome couch,
With kisses warm upon his cheek, to dream
Of heaven, till morning wakes him to the world.

The scene hath chang'd into a curtain'd room,
Where mournful glimmers of the mellow sun
Lie dreaming on the walls! Dim-ey'd and sad,
And dumb with agony, two parents bend
O'er a pale image, in the coffin laid,—
Their infant once, the laughing, leaping boy,
The paragon and nursling of their souls!
Death touch'd him, and the life-glow fled away,
Swift as a gay hour's fancy; fresh and cold
As winter's shadow, with his eyelids seal'd
Like violet lips at eve, he lies enrob'd
An offering to the grave! but, pure as when
It wing'd from heaven, his spirit hath return'd,
To lisp its hallelujahs with the choirs

Of sinless babes, imparadis'd above.



ROMANS, XI. 23, 24.

O ISRAEL! happy in the days of yore,
When thine own Shepherd led thee! though thine


Disdains the tear of Christian sympathy,

And thy proud heart revolts yet more and more,
We love and seek thee. In thine evil hour,

The Power that smites thee turns our hearts to


We long to lead thee to the peaceful shore,

And see thee blessed, sanctified, and free! Who would not mourn for thee? to whom consign'd Heaven's blessed oracles so long have been? Who would not weep, if thou, the only blind, Reject the beamings of that light serene? And would not pray the Hand divine to see Grafting the natural branch on its own olive tree?



OH! waste not thou the smallest thing,

Created by Divinity;

For grains of sand the mountains make,
And atomies infinity.

Waste thou not then the smallest time,

'Tis imbecile infirmity;

For well thou knowest, if aught thou knowest,

That seconds form eternity.



'Tis moonlight over Oman's Sea 1;
Her banks of pearl and palmy isles
Bask in the night-beam beauteously,

And her blue waters sleep in smiles.
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's 2 walls,
And through her Emir's porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, you heard the swell
Of trumpet and the dash of zel3,

Bidding the bright eyed sun farewell; —

The peaceful sun, whom better suits

Ths music of the bulbul's nest, 4

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All hush'd there's not a breeze in motion;
The shore is silent as the ocean.
If zephyrs come, so light they come,

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Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven;
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome 5
Can scarcely win a breath from heaven.


The Persian Gulf, so called from the Arabian province of that name, which extends along its coast.

2 The present Gombaroon.

A Moorish instrument of music.

The nightingale.

5 At Gombaroon, and other places in Persia, they have towers for the purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the houses.


As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower
Awes us less deeply in its morning-hour,
Than when the shades of time serenely fall
On every broken arch and ivied wall;
The tender images we love to trace,
Steal from each year a melancholy grace!
And as the sparks of social love expand,
As the heart opens in a foreign land;

And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile,
The stranger greets each native of his isle;
So scenes of life, when present and confest,
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast;
Yet not an image, when remotely view'd,
However trivial, and however rude,

But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh,
With every claim of close affinity!

But these pure joys the world can never know;
In gentler climes their silver currents flow.
Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day,
When the hush'd grove has sung its parting lay;
When pensive twilight, in her dusky car,
Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star;
Above, below, aërial murmurs swell,

From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell!
A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light,
Stealing soft music on the ear of night.

So oft the finer movements of the soul,
That shun the sphere of pleasure's gay controul,
In the still shades of calm seclusion rise,
And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies!



THE cypresses at Scutari1

In stern magnificence look down
On the bright lake and stream of sea,
And glittering theatre of town:
Above the throng of rich kiosks 2,
Above the towers in triple tire,
Above the domes of loftiest mosques,
These pinnacles of death aspire.

It is a wilderness of tombs,

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Where white and gold and brilliant hue
Contrast with nature's gravest glooms,
As these again with heaven's clear blue :
The city's multitudinous hum,

So far, yet strikes the listening ear,
But what are thousands to the sum

Of millions calmly sleeping here?

1 A town on the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus, facing Constantinople, of which it may be considered as a suburb. The magnificent cemetery, planted with cypresses, extends three miles over the plain, and is the favourite burying-place of the Turks of Constantinople. The Turkish tombs are very beautiful, of white marble, covered with verses from the Koran in gilt letters on a dark blue ground: the nature of the carved turban at the head denotes the rank of the deceased. Women's monuments are distinguished by a lotus leaf painted on them. Some graves are covered with marble troughs filled with mould to grow flowers in; nor is it uncommon, in Turkish cities, to see them covered with wire trellis, in which to keep birds, whose notes are supposed to solace the departed spirit. The deep solemnity of this vast forest of cypresses at Scutari, impenetrable alike to sun or gale, cannot be imagined. Paved roads intersect it in various directions. From the heights of Scutari is one of the finest views of Constantinople. 2 The country houses of the Turks.

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