great square, and servants carry luggage across it, to pass by the nearest route from one part of the town to the other. In several parts of the colonnade public schools are held, where young children are taught to spell and read: they form most noisy groups, and the schoolmaster's stick is in constant action. Some learned men deliver lectures on religious subjects every afternoon under the colonnade, but the auditors are seldom numerous. On Fridays, after prayer, some Turkish olemas explain to their countrymen a few chapters of the Koran, after which each auditor kisses the hand of the expositor, and drops money into his cap. I particularly admired the fluency of speech of one of these olemas, although I did not understand him, the lecture being delivered in the Turkish language. His gesticulations, and the inflexions of his voice, were most expressive; and, like an actor on the stage, he would laugh and cry in the same minute, and adapt his features to his purpose in the most skilful manner.

He was

a native of Brusa, and amassed a considerable sum of money. Near the gate of the mosque called Bab-el-Salam, a few Arab sheiks daily take their seat, with their ink-stand and paper, ready to write, for any applicant, letters, accounts, contracts, or any similar document. They also deal in written charms, like those current in the countries of the blacks, such as amulets, and love-receipts. They are principally employed by Bedouins, and demand

an exorbitant remuneration. Winding-sheets, and other linen washed in the waters of Zemzem, are constantly seen hanging to dry between the columns. Many hadjis purchase at Mekka the shroud in which they wish to be buried, and wash it themselves at the well of Zemzem, supposing that, if the corpse be wrapped in linen which has been wetted with this holy water, the peace of the soul after death will be more effectually secured. Some hadjis make this linen an article of traffic,"

THE WREATH, a Gift.

TWINE a wreath, and let the flowers
That we love the best be there:
Steal them from their sunny bowers,
When they seem most sweet and fair.

Weave the wild and blushing rose
With the scented eglantine,
And let their blending hues repose
On sprays of starry jessamine.
Seek in some sequester'd dell,
Ere the dew be pass'd away,
For the green aud mossy cell
Where the violet loves to stay.
Blend her pure and constant hue
With the myrtle's snowy bloom;
Place the crimson rose there too,
With her delicate perfume.

Twine the wreath, when this is done,
With ev'ry simple flower that blows;

Count them over one by one,

Ere their many stems you close.
Yes--one there is that is not there-
One that must not be forgot;
The flower that nature loves to wear,
The little "blue, forget me not.”

Twine it round about the wreath;
There is no room among the rest;
Twine it here, above, beneath;

Where'er it comes, it looks the best.

Weave it round the ivy stem;

Its tiny blossoms there look brightest ;
See, the wreath is thick with them;
They are the loveliest and the lightest.

It is done the wreath is done;
'Tis but a wild and simple thing,
The humble gift of those alone
Who have no other gifts to bring.

Oh, take it then, and let it be,

Though simple, still not quite forgot;
Call it the wreath of memory,

Bound in the "blue, forget me not."

G. C.

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

As, nourish'd by the sunshine and the showers,
Upon a garden bed, 'mid od'rous flowers,
A small weed springs (unprofitable birth!)
Encumbering the bosom of the earth;

Its leaves no beauty show, no sweets dispense,
To please the eye or gratify the sense;

It grows unheeded, or, if seen by chance,

Needs not an after-thought or second glance ;

So, 'mid flow'rs class'd and cull'd by hand of thine,

Like useless weeds appear these lines of mine;

And yet (though nought they be, or worse than nought)—
There's pleasure, there's ambition in the thought,

That, while the book you carelessly explore,

These lines perchance thine eye may wander o'er ;
That here, 'mid gems of verse and poet's lay,

These lines may share their freedom from decay,
And, for a while preserved, to after-hours

Live, like a weed amid a bed of flowers.

STANZAS,

by a disappointed Lover.

Be weal or woe my future lot,

It cannot matter to me now;

In palace, as in lowly cot,

'Mid banner'd halls, 'neath greenwood bough,
Sorrow must still my portion be,

Parted from thee.

Yet, never can my heart forget,

Nor shall it ever cease to pray

For thee-'twill soften the regret
Of disappointment many a day,
And my sole consolation be,
Parted from thee;

And, when thy prayers to Heaven are sent,
Disdain not thou to think of one
Who feels e'en now his punishment,
Whose earthly pleasures all are done;

And breathe a pitying prayer for me,
Parted from thee.

E. D., Jun.

1829] The Fair Vision, and Lines to an Inconstant Lover.

In pilgrimage through other lands

I'll seek to calm my anguish here;
But soon my soul will burst its bands,
And venture to another sphere:

Then, oh my lov'd one, pray for me,
Parted from thee!

133

L'ABANDONNE.

THE FAIR VISION;

a Portrait, by Mr. G. P. R. James.

HER voice was music, and a magic wile,

Born in the sweet persuasion of her smile,

Stole to the heart, like those bright summer beams
That fill the bosom with enchanted dreams;
And, as she moved, the graces round her thrown
Might have call'd blushes from the Phidian stone.
Her eyes, as April's morning skies, were blue,
As soft, as pure, and once as playful too;
Young melody delighted in her sigh;
Her lip was love, her soul was harmony.
Much was her joy to mark the opening spring,
And list while birds its welcoming would sing,
Or wander through the forest's budding shade,
'Midst youthful boughs in tender green array'd,
What time the young pale flow'rets early bloom,
And rise like spirits from their wintry tomb.
But, when the earth upheld the golden sheaf,
She'd mourn to see her much-lov'd summer leaf
Fall to the autumn ground, and fading flowers
Drop their light honors 'neath the passing hours;
For shadow'd forth through nature she would see
Prophetic lines of human destiny.

Yet much delighted she in every shade

By the world's variegated robe display'd;

For infant poesy possess'd her heart,

Which scarce herself would own, and knew not to impart.

But yet at times a something more than thought,

Like a dark cloud o'er summer landscape brought,

Would hang upon her; and with silent glance
She'd gaze upon the blue sky's deep expanse.

It seem'd as if her soul had ta'en its flight

To wander in its realms of native light;

To sojourn for a space in joy on high,

Then sorrowing leave its dwelling in the sky;

And then a glist'ning tear, uncall'd, would fill her eye.
She was not made for earth; a thing so fair

Seem'd form'd a higher destiny to share.

VERSES ADDRESSED BY A LADY TO AN INCONSTANT LOVER,

by the Author of the Sorrows of Rosalie.

On! could I come when fays have power,
And Sleep o'er mortals holds her sway,

There, in that silent moonlight hour,
I'd steal thy fickle heart away;

I'd bear it far, where none might see,

True constancy from mine to learn;
And still, while it remain'd with me,
"Twould be a pledge for thy return.

But oh! where shall I seek that heart
Which thousands claim, but none may keep ?
The gift which daylight sees depart,
Is it resumed before thy sleep?
Shall I seek out each beauteous maid
Who o'er thee held a transient sway?
In vain-where'er thy heart was laid,
Her tears have wash'd the trace away.

Then must I sit within my bower,
Unwitting where the prize to find,
And smile as each successive hour
Sees changing still thy wav'ring mind;
And still repeat the wish in vain,

That thou would'st live for me alone;
Or that to ease each maiden's pain
Thy cruel power to please were gone.

THE SORROWING BEAUTY,

by Maria Jane Jewsbury.

BEING of beauty and of grief!
Thy portraiture should be
Written in burning words and brief-
Tears, tears for thee!

A rose that by a lonely tomb
Hangs whitening in the sun,
The phantom of its former bloom
Yet ling'ring on;-

A rill once by a mountain side,
Companion blithe and boon,

Till scorching suns its sweet depths dried,
And quench'd its tune ;—

A violet that no shelt'ring leaf

Hides from the strong rain's swell :

Being of beauty and of grief,

These thy fate tell!

Desolate in each place of trust,

Thy bright soul dimm'd with care,

To the land where is found no trace of dust,
Oh! look thou there!

THE SUPERIORITY OF THE MIND TO EXTERNAL ATTRACTIONS,

from the Token, an American Annual.

A loftier gift is thine than she can give,

That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow
To perfectness, and give unto the form

A beautiful proportion; she may stain
The eye with a celestial blue, the cheek
With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe
Grace into every motion, like the play
Of the least visible tissue of a cloud;
She may give all that is within her own
Bright cestus; yet one silent look of thine,
Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.

Ay, for the soul is better than its frame,
The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,
Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,
Or color, but the beautiful links that chain
The mind from its rare element?

There lies

A talisman in intellect, which yields
Celestial music, when the master-hand
Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath
The outward semblance, and to common sight
Is an invisible and hidden thing;

But when the lip is faded, and the cheek
Robb'd of its daintiness, and when the form
Matches the sense no more, and human love
Falters in its idolatry,-this spell

Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on
Stealing anew the affections.-Marvel not
That Love leans sadly on his bended bow:
He hath found out the loveliness of mind,
And he is spoil'd for beauty. So 'twill be
Ever-the glory of the human form
Is but a perishing thing, and love will droop
When its brief grace hath faded. But the mind
Perisheth not; and, when the outward charm
Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,
And is the lovelier that it slept so long;
Like wells that, by the wasting of their flow,
Have had their deeper fountains broken up.

THE HOME OF DREAMS,

by Miss M. A. Browne.

WHENCE do ye come, ye fairy dreams,

That flash on our sleep with your broken gleams?
Fair mockeries of reality!

Tell me, where may your dwelling be?
Whether in brightness, or darkness, ye come?
Where, fickle wanderers! where is your home?

Do ye lie in the time of the sun-lighted hours,
Hidden in the blossoms of fragrant flowers,
While the rich tint of your bright wings vies
With the hue of your painted canopies ?
Do you rest all day in sweet tents like these,
Till call'd to your work by the evening breeze?

Or are the waters your places of rest?
Float ye along on the rivulet's breast?