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The Dutch came o'er the ocean,

As if it were their home,

With a slow and gliding motion The stately vessels come.

The sky is blue above them, But ere an hour be past, The shadows of the battle

Will over heaven be cast.

They meet-it is in thunder,

The thunder of the gun; Fire rends the smoke asunder The battle is begun.

He stands amid his seamen,

Our Admiral of the White, And guides the strife more calmly, Than of that strife I write.

For over the salt water

The grape-shot sweeps around; The decks are red with slaughter, The dead are falling round.

But the bold flag of old England
Flies bravely at the mast;

The Dutch take down their colours,
While the cannons fire their last.

From that hour victorious Have we kept the seas, And our navy glorious, Queens it o'er the breeze.

Long may we keep such empire, It is a noble debt

We owe to those past triumphs, We never may forget.

All generous feelings nursed the love
That out of pity came;
Womanly kindness, suffering truth,
Might sanctify its claim.

But better had she shared the doom,
She bade from him depart;
Death has no bitterness like life,
Life with a wasted heart.

Proud-beautiful-she boweth down
Beneath one deep despair;
Youth lingers lovely on her cheek,
It only lingers there.

She will command herself, and bear
The doom by Fate assign'd;
In natures high as hers, the heart
Is master'd by the mind.
But not the less 'tis desolate,

All lofty thoughts and dreams;
The poetry, with whose deep life
All stronger feeling teems.
These aggravate the ill, and give
A misery of their own;
The gifted spirit suffers much,
To common ones unknown.

Why did she love? Alas, such cnoice
Is not at woman's will;

Once must she love, and on that cast
Is set life's good or ill.
Sorrows, and timid cares, and tears,
The happiest entertain;

But this world has no other hope,
For her who loves in vain.

CAFES IN DAMASCUS.*

"And Mahomet turned aside, and would not enter the fair city: 'It is,' said he, 'too delicious." "

REBECCA.

SHE looketh on the glittering scene
With an unquiet eye;

The shadow of the wakening heart
Is passing darkly by.

The heart that is a woman's world,
Her temple and her home,

Which coloureth with itself her cares,
Whence all her joys must come.

* The victory over the Dutch was won by Admiral Blake in the time of the Protectorate. Van Tromp sailed into the channel with a broom at his mast head, intimating that he would sweep the seas of the English. The result is stated above.

LANGUIDLY the night wind bloweth

From the gardens round,

Where the clear Barrada floweth

With a lulling sound.

Not the lute note's sweetest shiver
Can such music find,

As is on a wandering river,
On a wandering wind.

* The cafes are perhaps the greatest luxury that a stranger finds in Damascus. Gardens, kiosques, fountains, and groves are abundant around every Eastern capital; but cafes on the very bosom of a rapid river, and bathed by its waves, are peculiar to this ancient city: they are formed so as to exclude the rays of the sun while they admit the breeze,

There the Moslem leaneth, dreaming O'er the inward world,

While around the fragrant steaming Of the smoke is curl'd.

Rising from the coffee berry, Dark grape of the South; Or the pipe of polish'd cherry, With its amber mouth.

Cool'd by passing through the water,
Gurgling as it flows-
Scented by the Summer's daughter,
June's impassion'd rose.

By that Rose's spirit haunted
Are the dreams that rise,

Of far lands, and lives enchanted,
And of deep black eyes.

Thus, with some sweet dream's assistance,
Float they down life's stream;
Would to Heaven, our whole existence
Could be such a dream!

SIR ROBERT PEEL.

Mrs. Hemans' last hours were cheered by the kindness of Sir Robert Peel; and the letter promising an appointment to her eldest son, was one of the latest that she received. This fact is my excuse for having deviated from my general rule of leaving cotemporary portraits to speak for themselves. I frankly confess that I can never write till interested in my subjects. Now, a female writer cannot pretend to even an opinion on the political and public characters of the day. The above incident, on the con

trary, belongs to the many who look back with admiration and gratitude to the gifted and the gone.

DIM through the curtains came the purple twilight slowly,

Deepening like death's shadow around that silent

room;

There lay a head, a radiant head, but lowly,

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And the pale face like a statue shone out amid the THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS.

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Fair Morning! lend thy wings, and let me fly
To thy eternal home,
Where never shadows come,

Where tears are wiped away from every eye.
I'm weary, weary of this earth of ours;

I'm sick with the heart's want;
My fever'd spirits pant,

To cling to things less transient than its flowers.

I ask of the still night-it answers me,

This earth is not my home:
Great Father! let me come,

A wanderer and a penitent, to 'Thee!

Ye far, fair mountains, echo with my cry,
Unto your realm of bliss
The grave the threshold is;
Let its dark portals open-let me die!

CEMETERY OF THE SMOLENSKO CHURCH.*

THEY gather, with the summer in their hands, The summer from their distant valleys bringing; They gather round the church in pious bands, With funeral array, and solemn singing.

The dead are their companions; many days Have past since they were laid to their last

slumber;

And in the hurry of life's crowded ways,
Small space has been for memory to cumber.

But now the past comes back again, and death
Asketh its mournful tribute of the living:
And memories that were garner'd at the heart,
The treasures kept from busier hours are giving.

The mother kneeleth at a little tomb,
And sees one sweet face shining from beneath it;
She has brought all the early flowers that bloom,
In the small garden round their home, to wreath it.

Friend thinks on friend; and youth comes back
again
To that one moment of awaken'd feeling;
And prayers, such prayers as never rise in vain,
Call down the heaven to which they are appealing.

* The Cemetery of the Smolensko Church is situated about two versts from Petersburgh, on one of the islands on the mouth of the Neva, and less than quarter of a mile from the gulf of Finland. The curious ceremony alluded to, takes place yearly, when the Russians gather from all parts, to scatter flowers on the graves, and to mourn above the dead, and afterwards proceed to regale them selves with soup, fruit of all kinds, and wine; in many instances spreading their cloths on the very graves over which they had been bitterlv mourning.

It is a superstitious rite and old,
Yet having with all higher things connexion ;
Prayers, tears, redeem a world so harsh and cold,
The future has its hope, the past its deep affection.

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL.*

'Twas the deep forest bodied forth that fane, So rose the arches of the old oak trees, So wreath'd the close set branches at their side, So through the open spaces gleam'd the sun; While like an anthem sang the morning birds.

All nature teacheth worship unto man, And the first instinct of the heart is faith. Those carved aisles, so noble in their state, So graceful in each exquisite device, Are of the past; a rude and barbarous past, And yet they rose to heaven. Though the red

sword

Flash'd in the sun, and with unholy flash
Disturb'd the silver moonlight's quiet hour;
Yet even then men craved for peace and heaven.
Hence rose these glorious temples, where the

Cross

Still sanctifies its merciful domain.

THE SACRED SHRINES OF DWARKA.

SUCH was the faith of old-obscure and vast,
And offering human triumphs unto heaven.
Then rose the stately temple, rich with spoils
Won from the vanquish'd nations. There the god
Stood visible in golden pageantry;
And pride, pomp, power were holy attributes.
A humbler creed has wander'd o'er the earth,
Known, as a quiet scarce-seen stream is known,
But by the greener growth upon its banks.
It is our Christian worship, which doth lead
The heart of man to Heaven by love alone.
Plant ye the Cross then by these ancient shrines :†
Far let it spread its genial influence-
Peace for its shadow-Hope for its sunshine.

* It is curious to observe how much the aspect of nature has in every country given its aspect to architecture. The colossal proportions of Indian scenery have not inore given their likeness to the vast temples of the Hindoos, than our own northern forests have given their own character to the Gothic cathedral.

† The introduction of Christian missionaries was always advocated by Sir Alexander Johnston, while President of His Majesty's Council in Ceylon. A leading Brahmin mentioned, while in conversation with him, the following striking fact. "For our toleration," said he, "I refer to SONG OF THE SIRENS.*

HITHER, famed Ulysses, steer, Pass not, pride of Greece, along To our haven come and hear, Come and hear the Sirens' song.

Never did a sable bark
Coasting by our island stray-
That it did not stop to mark,
With raptured ear our honey'd lay.

Here the seamen, loath to part,
Ever found a welcome kind;
We with pleasure cheer'd his heart
We with wisdom fill'd his mind.

Well we know each gallant deed
Done in Ilion's spreading land,-
When, as gods of heaven decreed,
Greece and Troy fought hand to hand.

the little Roman Catholic chapel of St. Francis, which had for the last three hundred years stood under a banyan tree, close by the great Hindoo temple. Not one of the innumerable devotees who resort thither on pilgrimages had ever molested the shrine of another faith."

* The original verses, eight in number, from which the above song is rather imitated than translated, are perfect models of harmony. They are generally supposed to give Homer's own idea of what an epic poem should be-bland and conciliatory in its opening, but at the same time expressing a thorough consciousness that the poet had the power of doing that which would make all ears listen. Ulysses wandering by, in his "winged pines," as Browne phrases it, is accosted in words of gentle accent, but the Sirens take care to tell him that, much praised and deservedly honoured as he is, he must listen to their song, for never yet had man heard them sing, without being subdued. The poet proceeds to promise, that sweetness of melody is to mark the flowing numbers of his lay, and that in the honied song are to be conveyed lessons of wisdom. The sailor, they say, dwells here delighted and filled with ampler knowledge. Such are the general promises, but as, after all, we must come to the particular incidents of human life-the soaring poem is to relate whatever is most spirit-stirring, most heart-moving, most thought-awakening in the doings of men. We must not hear of mere abstractions-we must have names and deeds interesting to every bosom; and we must be shown, too, that these deeds are regulated by powers above human control. The Sirens, therefore, announce that they shall sing of the most renowned event of their time, those wars and battles which took place before the wind swept towers of Ilion,"events to which he to whom they were sung had so mainly contributed, and which were done by the impulse of the gods. Such is the lay, continues the poet, I am about to pour into your ear; and that it may be done with every certainty of affecting all whose intellect or whose feeling can be approached in tone not to be resisted, I, the minstrel, (we, say the Sirens, but it is Homer, the one Homer, who speaks,) come to my task prepared with long-stored knowledge of all that can concern mankind. "We know all that is done upon the fertile bosom of earth."

Such is the ancient interpretation of the song of the Sirens. It may, perhaps, be fanciful, but those who consider the song with care will find that there is much in the comment, and will, at all events, agree that the poet who wrote the verses has fulfilled the conditions.

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When from the carved lattice
First she leant to look,
Her bright face was written

Like some pleasant book;
Her warm cheek the red air quaff'd,
And her eyes look'd out and laugh'd.
She is leaning back now languid

And her cheek is white,
Only on the drooping eyelash
Glistens tearful light.
Colour, sunshine hours are gone,
Yet the lady watches on.

Human heart this history
Is thy fated lot,
Even such thy watching,
For what cometh not.
Till with anxious waiting dull,
Round thee fades the beautiful,
Still thou seekest on, though weary,
Secking still in vain ;
Daylight deepens into twilight,
What has been thy gain?
Death and night are closing round,
All that thou hast sought unfound.

THE LAKE OF COMO.

AGAIN I am beside the lake,
The lonely lake which used to be
The wide world of the beating heart,
When I was, love, with thee.

I see the quiet evening lights

Amid the distant mountains shine;

I hear the music of a lute,

It used to come from thine.

How can another sing the song,

The sweet sad song that was thine own?

It is alike, yet not the same,

It has not caught thy tone.

Ah, never other lip may catch

The sweetness round thine own that clung; To me there is a tone unheard,

There is a chord unstrung.

Thou loveliest lake, I sought thy shores,
That dreams from other days might cast,
The presence elsewhere sought in vain,
The presence of the past.

I find the folly of the search,

Thou bringest but half the past again;
My pleasure calling faintly back
Too vividly my pain.

Too real the memories that haunt
The purple shadows round thy brink-
I only ask'd of thee to dream,

I did not ask to think.

False beauty haunting still my heart,
Though long since from that heart removed;
These waves but tell me how thou wert
Too well and vainly loved.

Fair lake, it is all vain to seek
The influence of thy lovely shore-
I ask of thee for hope and love-
They come to me no more.

THE PRINCESS VICTORIA.

A FAIR young face o'er which is only cast
The delicate hues of spring,
Though round her is the presence of the past,
And the stern future gathers darkly fast;
As yet no heavy shadow loads their wing.

A little while hast thou to be a child,
Thy lot is all too high;

Thy face is very fair, thine eyes are mild,
But duties on thine arduous path are piled-
A nation's hopes and fears blend with thy destiny.

Change is upon the world, it may be thine
To soothe its troubled way,

To make thy throne a beacon and a shrine
Whence knowledge, power, and liberty may shine,
As yet they have not shone on mortal day.

There is much misery on this won earth,

But much that may be spared;

Of great and generous thought there is no dearth,
And highest hopes of late have had their birth,
Hopes for the many, what the few have shared.

The wind that bears our flag from soil to soil,
Teaches us as it flies;

It carries in its breath a summer spoil,
And seeds spring up to stimulate man's toil,
So should our mind spread round its rich supplies.

Thou, royal child, the future is thine own,

May it be bless'd in thee!

May peace that smiles on all be round thy throne, And universal truth, whose light alone (Gives golden records unto history.

A DUTCH INTERIOR.

THEY were poor, and by their cabin,
Pale want sat at the door;
And the summer to their harvest
Brought insufficient store.

On one side, the fierce ocean Proclaim'd perpetual war; On the other, mighty nations Were threatening from afar.

Foes and seas denied a footing,
On the very ground they trod;
But they had their native courage,
And they had their trust in God.

They made the sea defender

Of the lately threaten'd shore, And their tall and stately vessels Sail'd the conquer'd waters o'er.

To the poor and scanty cabin,
Pour'd wealth from East and West
And freedom came with commerce,
From all old times her guest.

Dyke by dyke they beat their enemies,

As they had beat the sea;

Till Faith stood by her altar,
Secure-triumphant-free.*

* The brilliant theory of a republic has never been reduced to more rational practice than in the history of Holland. Commerce, religious toleration, security of life and property, and universal instruction-these have been the principles of the states from the very first. Liberty can have no securer foundations. We know of nothing finer in all history, than their unequal but triumphant struggle with le Grand Mmarque. The spirit which animated the

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