THE MODERN GREEKS.

IF I could venture to rely (which I feel that I cannot at all do) upon my own observation, I should tell you that there was more heartiness and strength in the Greeks of the Ottoman Empire than in those of the new kingdom. The truth is, that there is a greater field for commercial enterprise, and even for Greek ambitions under the Ottoman sceptre, than is to be found in the dominions of Otho. Indeed the people, by their frequent migrations from the limits of the constitutional kingdom to the territories of the Porte, seem to show that, on the whole, they prefer "groaning under the Turkish yoke," to the honour of "being the only true source of legitimate power" in their own land.

For myself, I love the race; in spite of all their vices, and even in spite of all their meannesses, I remember the blood that is in them, and still love the Greeks. The Osmanlees are, of course, by nature, by religion, and, by politics, the strong foes of the Hellenic people; and as the Greeks, poor fellows! happen to be a little deficient in some of the virtues which facilitate the transaction of commercial business (such as veracity, fidelity, &c.), it naturally follows that they are highly unpopular with the European merchants. Now, these are the persons through whom,

either directly or indirectly, is derived the greater part of the information which you gather in the Levant, and therefore you must make up your mind to hear an almost universal and unbroken testimony against the character of the people whose ancestors invented Virtue.

The Greek Church has animated the Muscovite peasant, and inspired him with hopes and ideas, which, however humble, are still better than none at all; but the faith, and the forms, and the strange ecclesiastical literature which act so advantageously upon the mere clay of the Russian serf, seem to hang like lead upon the ethereal spirit of the Greeks. Never, in any part of the world, have I seen religious performances so painful to witness as those of the Greeks. The horror, however, with which one shudders at their worship, is attributable, in some measure, to the mere effect of costume. In all the Ottoman dominions, and very frequently, too, in the kingdom of Otho, the Greeks wear turbans, or other head-dresses, and shave their heads, leaving only a rat's-tail at the crown of the head; they of course keep themselves covered within doors, as well as abroad, and never remove their head-gear merely on account of being in a church; but when the Greek stops to worship at his proper shrine, then, and then only, he always uncovers; and as you see him then, with shaven skull, and savage tail depending from his crown, kissing a thing of wood and glass, and cringing with tears, prostrations, and apparent terror

before a miserable picture, you see superstition in a shape which, outwardly at least, looks sadly abject and repulsive.

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.

WAKE not, oh mother! sounds of lamentation;
Weep not, oh widow! weep not hopelessly!
Strong is his arm, the bringer of salvation!
Strong is the word of God to succour thee.

Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him;
Hide his pale features with the sable pall;
Chide not the sad one wildly weeping o'er him,
Widowed and childless, she has lost her all.

Why pause the mourners, who forbids our weeping?
Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed?
"Set down the bier-he is not dead, but sleeping!
Young man arise !" He spake and was obeyed.

Change then, oh sad one, grief to exultation!
Worship and fall before Messiah's knee,
Strong was his arm, the bringer of salvation!

Strong was the word of God to succour thee.

LINES BY AN EMINENT STATESMAN.

WHEN gathering clouds around I view,
And days are dark, and friends are few;
On Him I lean, who, not in vain,
Experienced every human pain;
He sees my wants, allays my fears,
And counts and treasures up my tears.

If aught should tempt my soul to stray
From heavenly wisdom's narrow way;
To flee the good I would pursue,
Or do the sin I would not do,
Still He, who felt temptation's power,
Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.

If wounded love my bosom swell,
Deceived by those I prized so well;
He shall his pitying aid bestow,
Who felt on earth severer woe-
At once betrayed, denied, or fled
By those that shared his daily bread.

When vexing thoughts within me rise,
And sore dismayed my spirit dies;
Yet He, who once vouchsafed to bear
The sickening anguish of despair,
Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry
The throbbing heart, the streaming eye.

When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend,
Which covers all that was a friend,
And from his hand, and voice, his smile,
Divides me for a little while;

My Saviour marks the tears I shed,
For "Jesus wept o'er Lazarus dead."

And O, when I have safely passed
Through every conflict but the last,
Still, Lord, unchanging watch beside
My dying bed, for thou hast died.
Then point to realms of cloudless day,
And wipe the latest tears away.

THE DANSEUSE.

SHE curtsies, gazing round.

Who would not spend a fortune on her smile
How curved the stately form prepared to bound,
With footfall echoing to the music's sound,
In the Cachucha's proud triumphant pace!
What soft temptation in her look is found
When the gay Tarantalla's wilder grace

Wakes all the impassioned glow that lights her South ern face!