HYMN OF THE TURKISH CHILDREN.
184. HYMN OF THE TURKISH CHILDREN.
[A recent traveller in Turkey describes an interesting ceremony witnessed by her, performed at a time of excessive drought. "At dusk, the village children, walking two and two, and each carrying a bunch of flowers, drew near the cistern in their turn, and sang, to one of the thrilling melodies of the country, a hymn of supplication."]
ALLAH! Father! hear us;
Our souls are faint and weak:
A cloud is on our mother's brow,
A tear upon her cheek;
We fain would chase that cloud away,
And stay that sadd'ning tear;
For this it is to-night we pray—
Allah! Father! hear!
We seek the cooling fountain,
Alas! we seek in vain ;
The cloud that crowns the mountain
Melts not away in rain;
The stream is shrunk which thro' our plain
Once glided bright and clear;
Oh! ope the secret springs again
Allah! Father! hear!
We bring thee flowers, sweet flowers,
All withered in their prime;
No moisture glistens on their leaves;
They sickened ere their time.
And we, like them, shall pass away,
Ere wintry days are near,
Should'st thou not hear us when we pray,
Allah! Father! hear!
185. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
THE stately Homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childish tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!
186. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill;
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!
187. THE MAN OF ROSS.
ALL our praises why should lords engross ? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross : Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught the heaven-directed spire to rise?
"The Man of Ross!" each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place, with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread.
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, and med'cine makes and gives.
Is there a variance ? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now an useless race.
Thrice happy man, enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
Oh! say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines, to swell that boundless charity?
Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This Man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year!
Blush, Grandeur! blush! proud courts withdraw
blaze!
Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.
188. THE MOUSE AND THE CAKE.
A MOUSE found a beautiful piece of plum-cake, The richest and sweetest that mortal could make : 'Twas heavy with citron, and fragrant with spice, And cover'd with sugar all sparkling as ice.
"My stars !" cried the mouse, while his eye beam'd with glee;
"Here's a treasure I've found; what a feast it will be; But, hark! there's a noise, 'tis my brothers at play ; So I'll hide with the cake, lest they wander this way.
"Not a bit shall they have, for I know I can eat
Every morsel myself, and I'll have such a treat;"
So off went the mouse as he held the cake fast,
While his hungry young brothers went scampering past.
He nibbled, and nibbled, and panted, but still
He kept gulping it down till he made himself ill;
Yet he swallow'd it all, and 'tis easy to guess,
He was soon so unwell that he groan'd with distress.
His family heard him, and as he grew worse,
They sent fr the doctor, who made him rehearse
How he'd eaten the cake to the very last crumb,
Without giving his playmates and relatives some.
"Ah! me !" cried the doctor," advice is too late,
You must die before long, so prepare for your fate;
you had but divided the cake with your brothers,
"Twould have done you no harm, and been good for the
others.
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