« ElőzőTovább »
Young Achmet the Sultan with power hath crowned Twelve months and a day went the slow caravan him,
O'er the desert, the Mufu still placed in the van ; And his will is the fate of the slaves that surround him; And still every day by the prophet he swore, There is gold for his telling, there's pomp to beguile, That at Mecca the minarets only were four! And beauty that liveth alone in bis smile.
At length the day came when the pilgrims should spy What aileth him then that he sitteth alone,
At distance the minarets piercing the sky; And breaketh the stillness of night with his groan?
The Mufti rode first on a fleet-footed steed, There is fear in his soul which no pride can gainsay; And the pilgrims pressed after with new-wakened There is blood on his hand which will not pass away!
speed. “I have sinned,” said young Achmet, “but I will Why standeth the Mufti like one all aghast !
What vision of terror before bim hath passed! atone
He seeth the mosque-he hath counted them o'erFor my sin by erecting a temple of stone ;
Allah Kerim! six minarets !-Once there were four!"
THE SOURCE OF THE JUMNA.
By dint of untiring perseverance, we had at last reached The Mufti came up to young Achmet with speed, the confines of eternal snow. We found the river gliding ucSaying, “Sultan, what is it that thou hast decreed? der arches of ice. The most holy spot is upon the left bank. The mosque of the Prophet, thou know'st, hath but where a mass of quartz and silicious schist rock sends forth
five hot springs into the bed of the river, which bil and bubfour
ble at a furious rate. The height of the snow-bed at JamnoWould'st thou raise on this temple two minarets tree, is about ten thousand feet."
more!" “Go, fetch in the Hadjee!" the Sultan replied,
Oh for some old mystery! “Who came in from Mecca but last eventide!
Something that we could not knowNow tell us the minarets' number," said he,
Something that we could not fathom, “Of the great mosque at Mecca - twice two, or As it was long time ago! twice three ?"
Marvels strange have ceased to be –
There is now no mystery!
There were islands in the ocean,
Fair, Hesperian islands blooming
In a golden clime ! The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore
Rich and bright beyond compare, By his beard, that the minarets only were four:
'Mid the waves, we know not where! He had seen them himself; he had counted them oft; Four crescent-lipped minarets shooting aloft!
There were cyclops once, and giants;
There were unicorns of old; The young Sultan Achmet laughed loud, and replied,
There were magic carbuncles, " That a band of good pilgrims the truth should de
And cities paved with gold; cide ;"
How the world has changed since then! And as they reported, so soothly should be
When will wonders come again! His minarets' number — twice two, or twice three !*
Once there was a mystery * The Sultan Achmet, during the time of the caravan's In a mighly river's springs; march, had obtained two new minarets to be added to the original four of the mosque at Mecca, so that he accomplished
Once, the cloudy tops of mountains his design of crowning his own erection with six minarets,
Veiled mysterious things! without offending the piety of the true Murgulmans. So eager Wondrous pleasant did it seem, was he in the building of bis mosque, that for an hour every of the vast and veiled to dream! Friday, after prayers, be laboured with his own hands, in order to stimulate the workmen by his own example. It is a
Once, together side by side remarkable fact, that the final extirpation of the janissaries, who had been the personal enemies of the Sultan Achmet,
Sat the father and the child, two centuries afterwards was effected in this mosque.
Telling by the glimmering firelight, The reforming Sultan Mahmoud, who had determined on Histories strange and wild ! counteracting the influence of the janissaries, had ordered the
But philosophy and art sandjak-sheriff, or sacred standard of the Prophet, an object exhibited only on the most solemn and important occasions,
Thrust the child and man apart. to be unfolded with great pomp in the mosque of Achmet. No true Mussulman, to whom this was told, dared to resist faith they owed the Prophet, to rally round the sacred standthe summons; thousands, and tens of thousands, rushed to ard. A deep murmur of assent filled the dome, all fell prosthe temple. The banner was displayed from the lofty pulpit trate in confirmation of their resolve, and from that moment of the Imaum, and the Sultan exhorted the people, by the the cause of the janissaries became desperate.
Great Philosophy and Art!
This is now the wondrous pair
That have travelled air!
Have dissolved the carbuncle ;
Turned the cities' gold to dust; .
Ta'en our ancient trust!
Soar above, and peep below;
Melt the eternal snow; Not a stone unturn'd will leave Each old mystery to unweave! They have been where ne'er before
Human foot hath ever trod;
of the Hindoo's river-god!
Something that we could not know; Something that we could not fathom,
As it was long time ago!
How is it, sweet Madeline,
That thou art so kind of cheer, That the lowliest in the house
Thinks of thee with love, not fear. Even the sour old gardener,
Through the winter's iciest hours, Works with cheerful-hearted will
If it be to tend thy flowers. As for me - Oh, Madeline,
Though thy brethren fierce and high Scarce would deign to speak my name,
'Twould, for thee, be heaven to die! Madeline, my love is madness!
How should I aspire unto thee; How should I, the lowly-born,
Find fit words to woo thee! Every goodly chamber beareth
Proudly on its pictured wall, Lords and ladies of renown,
Richly robed, and noble all. Not a daughter of thy house
But did mate in her degree; "T was for love I learned by rote,
Long years past, thy pedigree! And in those old chronicles,
Which the chaplain bade me read, Not a page, but of thy line
Telleth some heroic deed.
THE BARON'S DAUGHTER.
THE LAY OF A LANDLESS POET.
Lovely Lady Madeline !
High-bom Lady Madeline, What a heavenly dream had I
'Neath the moon but yester-e'en ! In thy gracious beauty bright,
In thy bower I saw thee stand, Looking from its casement oui,
With my verses in thy hand. Birds were singing all around thee,
Flowers were blooming 'neath the wall, And from out the garden alleys
Chimed the silvery fountain's fall.
And within the chancel aisle,
'Neath their banners once blood-dyed, Lie the noble of thy house,
In their marble, side by side. As for me - my father lieth
In the village churchyard-ground, And upon his lowly head-stone
Only may his name be found. What am ), that I should love
One like thee, high Madeline ! I, a nameless man and poor,
Sprung of kindred mean. Without houses, without lands,
Without bags of goodly gold; What have I to give pretence
To my wishes wild and bold! What have I? Oh, Madeline,
Small things to the poor are great ; Mine own heart and soul have made
The wealth of mine estate. Walking 'neath the stars at even,
Walking 'neath the summer's noon; Spring's first leaves of tender green,
And fair flowers sweet and boon: These, the common things of earth,
But, more, our human kind; The silent suffering of the heart; The mystery of mind :
But thy thoughts were not of these;
Loveliest Lady Madeline, Would that, in that blessed hour,
I the folded scroll had been!
Madeline, thy race is proud,
Fierce thy brethren, stern thy sire; And thy lady-mother's scom
Withereth like consuming fire.
THE offspring of a troubled time;
To work heaven's will, in whom even crime
The needful scourge, perhaps no less
The slave of thine own worldliness, But still a mightier, loftier sway Meted the work that on thee lay.
Thou wert of those who, in the turn
Of a great nation's fate, arise, Her scorpion-whip, her teachers slem, From whom she hath, in blood, to learn,
Through suffering, to be wise ! Man of a million, not alone
For thine own will, thyself to please,
Gave God unto thy hand the keys Of empire; made the ancient throne Of kings thy servile stepping-stone.
A STREET in Smyrna! Let me think
of Smyrna nought I know, Except that Homer was a child
In Smyrna long ago!
Contended for his birth,
From all the towns of earth!
He played not in this street,
And sung his ballads sweet? Yes, it was in this very street,
Where stands that open door,
The poet's mother poor.
“And tell me more," said he, “Sweet mother, of the wars of Troy
They please me mightily!
Ulysses and his woes,
With him where'er he goes !".
Unto her sightless boy,
And of the wars of Troy.
And Phemius on his way,
Beheld them every day. The mother she was meek and young ;
The boy was blind; but ne'er
A child so wondrous fair:
With such a thoughtful air.
Became a pleasant thought,
The while his school he taught.
They met amid the bloody fields of Spain,
There met they, and like gods of battle stood, Each girt with armed hosts, and all athirst for blood!
Again they met — 't was on a summer's day, Unto the Valley of Sweet Waters bound,
And in their curtain'd chariots' depth profound With crimson banners torn, and swords blood-wet; The women go in crowds, mouth, brow, and cheek But each in his high place of honour set,
In muslin veil and shrouding yashmac wound : When all the bells of joyous London rung; 'Tis wonderful how they can breathe or speak! When window, balcon, roof, and parapet
But 't is the mode ; and forth the chariot goes, Were thronged with people, and with garlands Guarded by negroes, drawn by buffaloes.
hung, And one “God save the Queen!" pealed from the Although the cups of yaourt may be full, nation's tongue !
Although each soul for pleasure deeply delves,
A Turkish pic-nic must be rather dull; There met they; and like brethren, side by side, And these poor ladies, grouped in tens and twelves, Swelled the glad pomp of that great jubilee. Can only tiny sprigs of pleasure cull, -Oh proudest triumph of that day of pride, Muffled and cushioned, sitting by themselves, When met the nation's ancient chivalry,
Especially when just at hand they see
The men who might be talking pleasantly.
Well, Mahmoud Second loveth reformation,
He hath done mighty wonders in his day; And, that those mighty warriors met with sheathed He slew the standing army of his nation, brands!
He threw his soldiers' turbans all away;
Ordain that henceforth, in the summer weather, THE VALLEY OF THE SWEET WATERS. Women and men may sit and talk together.
"Sweet Waters" does not imply that they are distinguished by any remarkable sweetness of taste, but simply that they are not salt. Two rivulets are so named by the Franks, one in Europe, and the other in Asia : their banks are rich and
THE BURIAL-GROUND AT SIDON. verdant, enammelled with flowers, and are places of resort, wbere gay and festive parties meet for recreation. At these pic-nics, even the members of a family never mix together.
“The burial ground, with the old ruin, supposed to be the The onsocial jealousy of a Turk so separates the sexes, that castle of Louis IX., is without the town: the fall trees cast the father, husband, and brother are never seen in the same their shadow on the sepulchres, some fallen and ruined, others groups with their female relatives. The women assemble on newly whited and gilt, and covered with sentences in the one side round the fountain, and the men on the other.
Turkish character, the head-stones usually presenting a turban on a pedestal. Several women had come to mourn over the
graves of their relatives, in white cloaks and veils that envelAll cities have their outlets of delight;
oped them from head to foot: they mostly mourned in silence, We have our Greenwich, Richmond, Hampstead, and knelt on the steps of the tomb, or among the wild flowers Harrow,
which grew rank on the soil. The morning light fell partially
on the sepulchres, and on the broken towers of the ancient To appease the popular rural appetite,
castle ; but the greater part of the thickly-peopled cemetery For which the crowded city is too narrow;
was still in gloom-the gloom which the Orientals love. They Thither the people throng, in dust's despite,
do not like to come to the tombs in tbe glare of day: early of happiness to suck the very marrow;
morn and evening are the favourite seasons, especially tho
latter. This Burial-ground of Sidon is one of the most pictuThither throng rich and poor, the grave, the merry,
resque on the coast of Syria. The ruin, of Louis, tells, like lo steam-boat, omnibus, and cab, and wherry. the sepulchres, that this life's hope and pride is as "a tale that
is told.” When the moon is on its towers, on the trees, and The streets are stilling, bustling, noisy, dry;
tombs beneath, and on the white figures that slowly move to Hot are the pavements as an oven-floor,
and fro, the scene is solemn, and cannot be forgotten." Dingy-red brick grows tiresome to the eye ; The bell, the knocker, and the green street-door
THE dead are everywhere! The weary senses quickly satisfy;
The mountain-side; the plain; the woods profound; And then we send our gadding fancy o'er
All the wide earth — the fertile and the fair, Rich golden meadow's deep in summer grass,
Is one vast burial-ground ! To leafy trees, and rivers smooth as glass.
Within the populous street ; And then we rush into the popular stream,
In solitary homes; in places high ; And find ourselves with very prompt good-will,
In pleasure-domes where pomp and luxury meet, Borne down the silvery Thames on wings of steam,
Men bow themselves to die.
The old man at his door ; of the dense city likewise get their fill,
The unweaned child murmuring its wordless song; And sally forth, athirst for flowers and trees, The bondman and the free; the rich, the poor ; To drain the cup of pleasure to the lees.
All, all to death belong!
The sunlight gilds the walls
Athwart the common grass.
The living of gone time
As if no change could be.
There was the eloquent tongue;
The faithful and the fair.
They were, but they are not ;
Went down into the tomb.
And still amid the wrecks Of mighty generations passed away, Earth's boonest growth, the fragrant wild-Power,
And in the twilight deep,
To breathe the low lament.
The dead are everywhere! Where'er is love, or tenderness, or faith ; Where'er is power, pomp, pleasure, pride; where'er
Life is or was, is death!
A solitary grand old hall,
But I protest it was unkind, To bring Court-Aspley back to mind, With guests for ever on the floor, Even poor Miss Weld I now adore ! I can't think how they spend their lives These dull Scotch nobles and their wives The Macnamara and Mackay!
Ah! I'd a dream at break of day,
CECILIA. The very same!
Oh joyful day!
Ah, let us dress! Two hours later -LOUISA and CECILIA dressed.
I can't conceive whate'er possessed
You wear no ornaments to-night,