XLIX.

DIRGE OF ISHMAEL,

A Bedouin Chief.*

Our father's brow was cold, his eye
Gaz'd on his warriors heavily;
Pangs thick and deep his bosom wrung,
Silence was on the noble tongue;

Then writh'd the lip the final throe

That free'd the struggling soul below.

*The manuscript journal of a late traveller in Egypt furnished this short but expressive dirge, accompanied with the following very interesting remarks. "The current was against us; and, as we approached the city Cairo, the wind was lulled almost into a complete calm. Whilst we were busy at the oar, we were suddenly surprized with the noise of some unusual sounds from the river's side, on hearing of which our watermen immediately threw themselves on their faces and began a prayer. A few moments after, a procession was discovered advancing from a grove of date trees, which grew only at a short distance from the bank. It was a band of Bedouins, who, in one of their few adventures into the half civilized world of Lower Egypt, for the purpose of trade, had lost their chief by sickness. The whole of the train were mounted, and the body was borne along, in the middle of the foremost troop, in a kind of palanquin, rude, but ornamented with that strange mixture of savageness and magnificence which we find not unfrequent among the nobler barba rians of the east and south. The body was covered with a lion's skin, a green and golden embroidered flag waved over it, and some remarkably rich ostrich feathers on the lances formed the capitals and pillars of this Arab hearse.

"Though the procession moved close to the shore, none of the tribe appeared to observe our boat, their faces being stedfastly directed to the setting sun, which was then touching the horizon, in full grandeur, with an immense canopy of gorgeous clouds closing around him in a beautiful state of deepening purple. The air was remarkably still, and their song, in which the

T

He died!-Upon the desert gale
Shoot up his eagle shafts to sail;
He died!-Upon the desert plain
Fling loose his camel's golden rein;
He died!-No other voice shall guide
O'er stream or sand its step of pride.

Whose is the hand that now shall rear,
Terror of man, the Sheik's red spear?
Lives there the warrior on whose brow
His turban's vulture plumes shall glow?
He's gone, and with our father fell
The sun of glory—Ishmael!

L.

PARTING TOKENS.

This pledge of affection, dear Ellen, receive,
From a youth who's devoted to thee;

And when on the relic you look, love, believe,
Thy Edward still constant will be;

whole train joined at intervals, sounded most sweet. Their voices were deep and regular: and as the long procession moved slowly away into the desert with their diminishing forms and fading chorus, they gave us the idea of a train solemnly passing into the shades of eternity. The present translation of their song or hymn was collected from one of our buatmen, who had paid particular attention to it."

The gift thou hast woven, I'll wear near my heart,
And oft the dear token will prove

A charm, to dispel every gloom, and impart
A joyful remembrance of love.

Nay, weep not, sweet maid, though thy sailor, awhile,
Must roam o'er the boisterous main,

Fond hope kindly whispers that fortune will smile,
And we shall meet happy again;

One embrace ere we part-see, the vessel's unmoor'd,
The signal floats high in our view;

The last boat yet lingers to waft me on board,
Adieu, dearest Ellen, adieu.

LI.

I SAW THEE WEEP.

I saw thee weep-the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear,
A violet dropping dew.

I saw the smile-the sapphire's blaze
Beside thee ceas'd to shine;"

I could not watch the living rays
That fill'd that glance of thine.

As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow dye,

Which scarce the shade of coming eve

Can banish from the sky,

Those smiles unto the moodiest mind
Their own pure joy impart;

Their sunshine leaves a glow behind
That lightens o'er the heart.

LII.

NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN.

AIR." The hopeless lover."

Now Spring has clad the grove in green,
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers;

The furrowed, waving corn is seen

Rejoice in fostering showers;

While ilka thing in nature join,
Their sorrows to forego,

O why thus, all alone, are mine
The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling burn,
Glides swift-a silver dart,

And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art :

My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I,

But love, wi' unrelenting beam,

Has scorched my fountains dry.

The little floweret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,

Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot,

Nae ruder visit knows,

Was mine, till love has o'er me passed, And blighted a' my bloom;

And now, beneath the withering blast, My youth and joy consume.

The wakened laverock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings

In morning's rosy eye;

As little recked I sorrow's power,

Until the flowery snare

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.