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the Sultan? The interests of Russia are unquestionably bound up in its permanence and developement. The interests of the Porte are actually sas crificed by its provisions. The interests of Great Britain, France, and Austria are necessarily compromised by the Russian possession of the Bosphorus, which virtually that treaty ensures. By the treaty of Adrianople, Turkey obliged herself to pay to the autocrat ten millions of ducats. By the treaty of Unkiar Skelessi, she sold her freedom for a mess of pottage. As she was unable to defend herself, and as her " faithful" allies would not defend her, therefore, by an everlasting law of life among nations, she is no longer an independent state-she is no more. Is this treaty, then, to be suffered to remain as the political nightshade over the destinies of the Porte? If so, Turkey must expire, Russia announces her fixed resolution to maintain the integrity of the treaty, and to make war for its preservation. England has refused, by the Whigs, to go to war with Russia. She has sacrificed the freedom of the Black Sea, and the independence of the Bosphorus, to her policy in Ireland and her internal squabbles about pretended reform. France looks on. Austria imitates her example. The treaty of Unkiar Skelessi exists, and Turkey Turkey is gradually expiring beneath the "protection" of the Czar.

Seventh, and finally, Is the Turkish empire to be reconstituted? or is an Egyptian and Syrian empire to be founded? Are we approaching the pe riod when that mighty Mohammedan colossus which bestrode the world is for ever to disappear, and when new states and empires are to arise on the ruins of error, vice, and superstition?

or has the world yet to witness new phases in this Eastern question, and are centuries still to elapse before "the river Euphrates shall be dried up, that the way of the kings of the East may be prepared?" The status quo is next to impossible; not perhaps for the hour, the month, or the year, but for almost the shortest period of a nation's history. We count our lives by moments-those of nations by years. The Eastern question cannot be SETTLED without war and conflagration. It may be postponednot long-but for a short space of time, its settlement by diplomacy is impossible. The decline and fall of empires, long since unknown but in the works of the historian, should teach us that the present position of the affairs of the East is only preparatory to a mighty catastrophe. The Mohammedan empire is reaching the closing period of its eventful history. But what is to supersede it? Is the Stamboul of the past to be inhabited by advancing Cossacks, and the yet uncivilized hordes of the Russian forests? Is the ancient Byzantium, once the seat of the Roman empire in the east, to become the capital of another despotism, not less tyrannical, but far less enlightened? Is the Archipelago to become the private property of the Russian Czars? Is the Sea of Marmora to be closed to all pendants but that of the eagle of the north? Are the Turks to saunter, as strangers in a strange land, amongst the ruins of their former glories? Are their children to feel that they are ruled by a stranger's hand as they walk on the Hippodrome, or enter the temple of St Sophia? We cannot answer these questions; but appearances are all in favour of the affirmative.

THE BOWER OF PEACE.

BY DELTA.

WHEN Hope's illusions all have waned,
And Silence broods above the dead;
When Sorrow's clouds have gloom'd, and rain'd
Full oft on man's devoted head, -
The time-taught spirit loves to wend

Back through the past its mazy way,
And see the early larks ascend
Up to the gates of day:
While earth, outspread to childhood's glance,
Glow'd like a dream of bright romance.
'Twas in the depth of dazzling May,

When bland the air, and blue the skies;
When groves in blossom'd pride were gay,
And flow'rets of innumerous dyes
Gemm'd Earth's green carpet, that I stray'd,
On a salubrious morning bright,
Out to the champaign, and survey'd,
With thrillings of delight,
Landscapes around my path unfurl'd,
That made an Eden of this world.
I listen'd to the blackbird's song,

That, from the covert of green trees,
Came, like a hymn of heaven along,
Borne on the bloom-enamour'd breeze:
I listen'd to the birds that trill'd,
Each in its turn, some witching note:
With insect swarms the air was fill'd,
Their wintry sleep forgot;
Such was the summer feeling there,
God's love seem'd breathing every where.
The water-lilies in the waves

Rear'd up their crowns all freshly green,
And, bursting forth as from their graves,
King-cups and daffodils were seen :
The lambs were frisking in the mead;
Beneath the white-flower'd chestnut-tree
The ox reclined his stately head,
And bent his placid knee :
From brakes the linnets caroll'd loud,
While larks responded from the cloud.
I stood upon a high green hill,

On an oak stump mine elbow laid,
And, pondering, leant to gaze my fill
Of glade and glen, in pomp array'd.
Beneath me, on a daisied mound,
A peaceful dwelling I espied,
Girt with its orchard branches round,

And bearing on its side
Rich cherry-trees, whose blossoms white
Half robb'd the windows of their light.
There dosed the mastiff on the green-
His night-watch finish'd; and, elate,
The strutting turkey-cock was seen,
Arching his fan-like tail in state.
There was an air of placid rest
Around the spot so blandly spread,
That sure the inmates must be blest,
Unto my soul I said;

Sin, strife, or sorrow, cannot come,
To desolate so sweet a home!
Far from the hum of crowds remote,
From life's parade and idle show,
'Twould be an enviable lot,
Life's silent tenor here to know;
To banish every thought of sin,

To gaze with pure and blameless eyes;
To nurse those holy thoughts within
Which fit us for the skies,
And to regenerate hearts dispense
The tranquil bliss of innocence.
We make our sorrows; Nature knows
Alone of happiness and peace;
'Tis guilt that girds us with the throes,
And hydra-pangs that never cease:
Is it not so? And yet we blame

Our fate for frailties all our own, Giving, with sighs, Misfortune's name

To what is fault alone :
Plunge we in sin's black flood, yet dream
To rise unsullied from such stream?
V ain thought! far better, then, to shun
The turmoils of the rash and vain,
And pray the Everlasting One
To keep the heart from earthly stain;
Within some sylvan home like this,
To hear the world's far billows roll;
And feel, with deep contented bliss,
They cannot shake the soul,
Or dim the impress bright and grand,
Stamp'd on it by the Maker's hand.
When round this bustling world we look,
What treasures observation there?
Doth it not seem as man mistook
This passing scene of toil and care
For an eternity? As if

This cloudland were his final home;
And that he mocked the great belief
Of something yet to come?
Rears he not sumptuous palaces,
As if his faith were built in these?
To Power he says" I trust in thee!"

As if terrestrial strength could turn
The avenging shafts of Destiny,
And disappoint the funeral urn:
To Pride Behold, I must, and can !"
To Fame-" Thou art mine idol-god!"
Το Gold" Thou art my talisman
And necromantic rod!"
Down Time's far stream he darts his eye,
Nor dreams that he shall ever die.
Oh, fool, fool, fool!-and is it thus

Thou feed'st of vanity the flame ?
The great, the good are swept from us,
And only live in deed or name.
From out the myriads of the past,

Two only have been spared by Death; And deem'st thou that a spell thou hast

To deprecate his wrath ?
Or dost thou hope, in frenzied pride,
By threats to turn his scythe aside?

Where are the warrior-men of old ?
Where are the realms on which they trod?

While conquest's blood-red flag unroll'd,
And man proclaim'd himself a god!
Where are the sages, and their saws,

Whence wisdom shone with dazzling beams? The legislators, and their laws,

What are they now but dreams ?
The prophets, do they still forebode?_
Our fathers, where are they? - with God!
Our fathers! We ourselves have seen

The days when vigour arch'd each brow;
Our fathers!!-are they aught, I ween,
But household recollections now?
Our fathers!!!-nay, the very boys,
Who, with ourselves, were such at school,
When, nectar-sweet, life's cup of joys
Felt almost over-full,
Although one parish gave them birth,
Their graves are scatter'd o'er the earth!
Alas! with care we sow the wind,

To reap the whirlwind for our pains; On the dark-day of need to find

All proffer'd ransom Time disdains; All that was once our idle boast,

Weigh'd in the balance, dust shall be;
Death knocks-frail man gives up the ghost
He dies-and where is he?

Vanish'd for ever and forgot,
The place that knew him knows him not!
Ho! wanderer, ho! - eschew the wrong,
To reason turn, from error cease ;
And list the words of wisdom's tongue,
The still small tongue that whispers peace:
Withhold the heart from worldly strife-
Do good-love mercy-evil fly;
And know that, from this dream call'd life,
We wake but when we die ;-

Unto the eager to be pure
The path is straight-the palm is sure!
For ne'er hath prodigal come round,

Subdued in heart, and craving grace,
Whate'er his faults, who hath not found
Forgiveness in the Saviour's face;
At contrite hearts He will not scoff-
Whoever knocks an entrance wins:

Then let us, at the cross, throw off
The burden of our sins;
And though their dye be black as night,
His blood can make has made them white!

THE ANTEDILUVIANS; OR, THE WORLD DESTROYED.

"IT is many years," says Dr M'Henry, "since I first entertained the design of writing a narrative poem, on some great event in the history of Man; but the selection of that event was a matter of no slight difficulty. A good subject, I knew, was the first step towards success in any literary undertaking; and I resolved to adopt none which I did not feel persuaded would form a recommendation to my work." Mrs Hannah and Mr Thomas Moore, and our friend Mr John Stewart, have furnished us with elaborate pictures of gentlemen respectively in search of a wife, a religion, and a horse; but none of the three is so impressive as the Doctor's of a poet in search of a subject. In that search his sconce has become slape his eyes have lost their lustre -his frame has been bent earthwards; so that, while yet little more than threescore, his semblance is that of extreme old age. Even we ourselves look-nay feel young, in his presence;

to us

"The oldest man he seems that ever wore grey hairs."

66

This comes of devoting one's-self for many years to the selection for the subject of a narrative poem of some great event in the history of man. Their multitude is overwhelmingand shifting as the clouds. An event that to the eyes of imagination overshadows the whole morning sky-at meridian looks but a speck-in the gloaming, is gone. Among great events, alas! how few good subjects!" mentally exclaims the solitary, with a sigh. But a good subject is "the first step towards success in any literary undertaking;" and till that is taken, lack-a-daisical indeed must be the aspect of the meditative poet-sitting by himself with his pen in his hand. Every year he grows harder and harder to please subjects not to be sneezed at on the score of size, to his fastidious optics seem contemptibly small-mountains dwindle into molehills rivers into rills-seas into ponds; and the consequence is, that, "resolved to adopt no subject which he does not feel persuaded would form a recommendation to his work," he

adopts none at all, and, after a term protracted far beyond the narrow span usually allotted to human life, he dies without his fame, and leaves no proof of his existence here below, except, perhaps, a few pieces of prose.

Such, however, will not be the fate of Dr M'Henry-though he has made a narrow escape. "The annals of mankind," he acutely remarks, "furnish many great and stirring events, well adapted to poetic narration; but I wanted one not only great in its character, but universal in its effects, that all men might feel an interest in its details." That was a noble ambition, and proved how just an appreciation the Doctor had been led to make of his powers, aspiring very early to the most extensive practice. "Neither the founding of a state," he exultingly declares, "the achievement of a victory, nor the overthrow of an empire, was therefore adequate to my wishes."

"Tantæ molis erat Romanam condere gentem,"

a line by many thought to be magnificent, seemed almost mean to his imagination

Μῆνιν αειδε, Θεὸς, Πηληιάδες ̓Αχιλλῆος, an invocation by all felt to be sublime fell far short of the reaches of his sou

and thus the Iliad and the Æneid appeared to the Doctor to be respectable poems in their way" on great and stirring events, well adapted to poetic narration"-but because "not universal in their effects," sufficient for the genius of a Homer and a Virgil, but inadequate to that of a M'Henry, born in the fulness of time and for the illumination of the whole race of man.

"The discovery of the New World," he admits, "was an event of great and general interest; but it was already poetically occupied, and therefore forbidden to me by both courtesy and policy." America, it may be remarked as we go along, is not a new world, but merely one of the four quarters of the old-and the old world went on well enough for the purposes of poetry, while it was supposed to consist but of Europe, Asia, and Africa - yet do we cheerfully grant that the disco

James M'Henry, M.D. London. Cradock: 1839.

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