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, And stately brows are smooth and fair Of joys that early fade! And some wear flashing opal-stones Or through their wavy ringlets gleam 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, 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, Whispering sweet comfort to the soul Ah! vain are all the gems of earth, The sage's classic toils; If love, that precious gift of heaven, 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! Enjoy that wedded Love and Truth, 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. 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, To pierce the solemn stillness of its gloom, Had veil'd the stern, wild rocks. Each mountain-stream Of falling avalanche. The pilgrims trod, |