HIMALAYA MOUNTAINS, INDIA.

Heavier, yet more heavy, grows his aching head:

Hateful, and yet helpful, that eternal bed:

Seek the Himalaya; try the healthy change;

Cool air from the mountains; from "the Snowy Range!"

Ah! the sky seems losing half its torrid glow,

At the sweet sound spoken of that welcome SNOW:
For it brings dear pictures from his native land;
In his Father's garden now he seems to stand,
Full of children playing, (happy, merry throng!)
Listening in the summer to the cuckoo's song;
Flinging sparkling snow-balls on a winter's day ;
Laughing, leaping, shouting,-wild with frolic play!
Now the old swing fastened 'neath the mulberry-tree,
And his sister bending, with her eyes of glee,
Timid, yet exulting in the height she goes,
With her light robe floating, brushing past the rose.
Darling little sister! now to woman grown,

Is that young heart given, once so much his own?

Art thou Bride and Mother? Oh, how time rolls by!
England! happy England! Must your exile die?
Keep the fair dreams round him; they may lift his heart,
When the pang is on him, and the fever-start;

Blow, ye cooling breezes! blow, and with you bring
Visions of the freshness of an English spring;

Primroses and cowslips, violets that come

Peeping through the hedges of his northern home.

Sisters, do you miss him, whom ye loved so well?

Mother, dost thou weep for him, where he used to dwell?
Pray, that he may greet you, as he prayeth now,
With a cheek grown hollow, and a pallid brow;
Pray at morn and even for that precious life,
Which with sickness holdeth such a mortal strife;
Pray for him who lieth 'neath the Indian sky,
Dreaming of Old England, with a heavy sigh!

9

THE MISTAKEN HAND.

THE red beam faded from the sultry sky,
And shades of evening gather'd silently,
As Inez sate, through the blue depths afar,
Watching the rising of one burning star;
The hour was come; her lute was laid aside,
And stepping forth, she gazed upon the wide
And sleeping earth; each dell and silent bower,
Fragrant with breath of rose and orange-flower;
Beauteous she stood amid the soft night-air,

Her ringlets parted on her forehead fair,

And on her ruby lips a smile more bright

Than morning's rosy beam of orient light.

Quick sped the time; and while she hoped and fear'd,

A wary footstep on the turf she heard;
Then flush'd her cheek with a rich crimson glow,
While darkness shrouded him who stood below:
An upraised hand was there; it clasp'd her own;
No word was spoken; but the low soft tone
Of murmur'd thankfulness, and trusting love
Came from her heart, as bent she from above.
She traced a few brief words; then gave the scroll
To him-the favour'd one, who nightly stole,
While the still world around was hush'd in sleep,
For one short hour, to tell how strong, how deep
The love he bore, and must for ever bear
His radiant Inez, his own peerless fair!
This night he spake not; bound as with a spell,
He breathed not e'en the one sad word, "Farewell!".
A deep chill silence boded coming ill;
The sighing night-breeze wail'd-all else was still!

Fair Inez slept; but dreams of slain and dying,
Around her silken couch were wildly flying;
And swords all wet and red seem'd strew'd around,
And 'neath her feet blood soak'd the trampled ground.
She woke; the dream had pass'd; but still her heart
Was sad; nor would the fearful shade depart.