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music she does sometimes acquire; because music, as she understands it, is merely a physical enjoyment, demanding no intellectual exertion, and affording no mental gratification.

English women! when you contemplate the condition of your Circassian sisters, be thankful for the promulgation of that Divine religion which has elevated your position above theirs!

Music is in the Sultan's hall

Mingling with voice of song;

And sweet scents fill the fragrant air,

From rose and myrtle flung;

Through the wide chambers, loveliest flowers

Bloom forth, a beauteous store,

And brilliant wreaths are twining all

The marble pillars o'er.

And fairy forms are sparkling there;

Glances of shining eyes

Light up the Harem with their beams,
Like stars in Eastern skies,

And stately brows are smooth and fair
Beneath the rose-wreath's shade;
Meet emblems are its crimson leaves

Of joys that early fade!

And some wear flashing opal-stones
Amid their graceful curls;

Or through their wavy ringlets gleam
The rarest, costly pearls;

And many a slender zone is clasp'd

With jewels, and red gold,

And rubies burn, and diamonds shed

Their lustre, pure but cold.

But colder still the heavy heart

That languidly beats on ;

And the faint, trembling life-blood's throb

Beneath the jewell'd zone.

Sweet flowers, and blooms of every dye,

Mantle the summer-bowers :

But vain were flowers of Paradise

To wing the weary hours!

S. S.-VOL. II.

INTERIOR OF A HAREM.

Ah! where is holy wedded love

Its ardour and its calm ?

That blessed love, that healeth grief,
With its own hallow'd balm?
Where that enduring passion wrought

To gentlest constancy?

That highest blessing still bestow'd

On frail mortality?

That pure devotedness of soul,

So beautiful to view,

Affection's meek, but deathless strength,

So proudly, firmly true?

That patient love which beareth on

Through sorrow's darkest day,

And hopes and smiles, until the clouds

In rainbows melt away?

That love which when the world's cold scorn

Is shower'd upon the head

So prized and cherish'd, fain would meet

The tempest in its stead?

That with calm brow, though breaking heart,
Watches the couch of Death,

Whispering sweet comfort to the soul
That yields its quivering breath ?

Ah! vain are all the gems of earth,
Vain all the sea's rich spoils,
And fruitless all the ancient lore,

The sage's classic toils;

If love, that precious gift of heaven,
Be not this cold world's guest;
If its self-sacrificing flame

Enkindle not the breast!

For them-the Sultan's favourites

Ah! dreary is their lot!

They droop, mid passion's fiery glow,

But LOVE they know it not!
Oh! happy who, on England's soil,
Dwelling mid cottage walls,

Enjoy that wedded Love and Truth,
Unknown in Eastern Halls!

X

81

LOUIS PHILIPPE AT THE HOSPITIUM ON MOUNT ST. GOTHARD.

It was during his wanderings when compelled to escape for his life from his distracted country, that Louis Philippe-then Duke de Chartres, afterwards King of the French, and now, by a revolution not less extraordinary than that of 1793, Count de Neuilly, and once more an exile-presented himself, attended by his faithful servant, at the door of the Hospitium of St. Gothard, and requested shelter for the night.

"What do you want?" asked a Capuchin friar, looking forth from a window above.
"I want," replied the duke," food and shelter for my companion and myself."
"My good youth," rejoined the friar, "we don't admit pedestrian travellers here."

The wandering duke remonstrated against this inhospitality; adding, that he was able and willing to pay whatever might be demanded. The friar, however, was inexorable. "No, no," said he, pointing to a humble shed, under cover of which some muleteers were eating their Alpine cheese, "that little inn opposite is good enough for such as you ;" and so saying, with a deplorable want of Christian charity and common hospitality, he closed the window of the monastery, and excluded from its sheltering walls a prince of the blood royal of France.

Two wanderers stood at that dark convent gate;

One, of a royal line, whose early fate

Was danger, want, and toil. A weary way

Had he, and his one follower, trod that day

Through lonely Alpine vales; and now the night,
Stormy and dark, with scarce a ray of light
From the pale, shrouded, struggling waning moon,

To pierce the solemn stillness of its gloom,

Had veil'd the stern, wild rocks. Each mountain-stream
That glow'd erewhile beneath the sunset gleam,
Now mingled with the black pine's sullen roar,—
That solemn tree, that sadly gazes o'er
The voiceless waste of solitude profound,
Or, rock'd by tempests, echoes back the sound

Of falling avalanche. The pilgrims trod,
With troubled hearts and failing feet, the road
That wound from height to height; till from afar,
Beam'd forth a solitary light. No star
From out th' ethereal vault of heaven
E'er gleam'd so sweetly, as those pale rays given
To cheer their drooping hearts; in stern array
Rose, mid the gloom, St. Gothard's turrets gray;
Hoary with time, and stain'd by blasting storms,
Still proud and firm they stood, like giant-forms

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