But timing our steps to the eager swell

Of Citarr and Vin *-while each silver bell

That hangs on our dancers' feet resembles
The Lotos white when the dark wave trembles.

Proudly falls the raptured beam

Of the setting sun on our goddess' stream;
And there the tall ship meets his ray-

The gaudy Bolio's streamer gay

The fabric slight-and the sail of snow
Of native boat, or Arab Dow;

And he smiles, as the offerers fondly tell,
On each floating wreath and gilded shell
That brightly on the waters swell.

The groves that hang o'er the river's bank,
Each sculptured temple, and shaded tank, †
With Ganga's‡ festal lights are gleaming,
Through porch and lofty column streaming :-

*Musical Instruments.

+ A lake or reservoir of water, often surrounded with strong masonry, and the banks adorned by mango, banian, and tamarind trees.

Ganga is the goddess of the Ganges. During the, festivals which commemorate her descent to earth, crowds of people assemble near the river, bringing offerings of fruit, rice, flour, sweetmeats, &c. and hang garlands across the river, even where at is very wide. At some of these festivals the banks of the Ganges are in many places gaily illuminated.

Haste, Lillah, haste, the rites are done,
Thy last bright thread of life is spun ;-
A moment, and its limit breaks-

A moment, and thy spirit wakes
From its earthly dream, in a land afar,
Higher and brighter than sun or star!
Each golden gate and ruby key,
And curtain of light, shall ope' for thee,
Till last and brightest of the seven, *

Where Brahma dwells, shall be thy heaven!

We have wreathed thine arms with bracelets bright,

With chains of gold thine ancles light;

Thy limbs are dewed with fragrant ghee,

With many a balm from many a tree,
And o'er them falls thy light shalie.+

Thy dark and root-stained locks confined,

No longer float upon the wind;

O'er them each bright flower sheds its bloom-
The precious ottar its perfume;

* Some of the Hindoos (like the Mahomedans) believe their heaven and hell divided into different stages, which are peopled by different kinds of angels and gods, and in which exists various degrees of happiness and misery. ¿

The shalie is a light upper garment, generally composed of silk or cotton, and forms a very graceful drapery round the figure,

Thy hand the sacred grass * is bearing

Thy head the bridal veil is wearing ;

And every jewel on thy breast,
And every wreath upon thy vest,
Glows in that sunset-light afar,

Each flower a gem-each gem a star.

The Gooroot and the wild Fakeer, t
Pilgrim and Parsee, crowd thy bier;
And there the Brahmin, nobler far,
With flowing robe and white zennaar, || `
Is waiting with the sacred fire,—
Lillah the phoenix of the pyre!

Each precious gum and odorous bough
Have grove and forest yielded now,
To rear a costlier shrine for thee
Than blessed the bird of Araby.

Haste, then, with glittering fingers dress
The couch thy faithful limbs must press,

The Cusha grass is esteemed sacred: the hands of the bride and bridegroom are bound together with it when they are married; and the widow generally carries some of it in her hand when she walks to the funeral pile.

+ A spiritual teacher.

A religious mendicant.

The Parsees are descendants of the Persian fire-worshippers.

The sacred thread, composed of twisted cotton, worn by the Brahmins over the left shoulder.

And scatter, with a tearless eye,
Thy flowers upon each passer by;
While shouts of triumph to thy fame
Shall mingle with the mounting flame
That bears thee, as a chariot bright,
To Vishnoo's thousand halls of light:-
Haste, Lillah, haste, the rites are done,
Thy last bright thread of life is spun.

M. J. J.

A PERSIAN PRECEPT.

BY HERBERT KNOWLES.

FORGIVE thy foes;-nor that alone,
Their evil deeds with good repay,
Fill those with joy who leave thee none,
And kiss the hand upraised to slay.

So does the fragrant Sandal bow

In meek forgiveness to its doom;

And o'er the axe, at every blow,

Sheds in abundance rich perfume.

P

LINES

BY THE LATE ISMAEL FITZADAM,

(The Sailor Poet.)

Written a short time previous to his death.

LADY, look not thus mildly soft on me-
It melts deep memory into fruitless tears;
Blue glance, and glow of rose, but ill agree
With tyrant pain's anticipated years.
No: gloomier themes befit my waning hour:
The ocean-wreck-the ruin's crumbling wall-
The blasted heath-the blighted valley flower,
With not one tear of dew to weep its fall;-
Scathed by the arm of heaven, the desert pine-
The brook's white channel bare, without a wave;
These suit the fallen wretch-these then be mine,
Announcers of no deprecated grave.

Yet might one wild devotion-sole but strong-
Indulgence from the good, the lovely prove,
This breast would breathe, in unforbidden song,
Its latest weakness-lady is it love? Ne have
Yes, let thy love's pure light still smile for me,
Like silent moonlight 'round a leafless tree.