HARMONY.

BY JOHN BOWRING, ESQ.

I BADE the Day-break bring to me
Its own sweet song of ecstasy:
An answer came from leafy trees,
And waking birds, and wandering bees,
And wavelets on the water's brim
The matin hymn — the matin hymn!

I asked the Noon for music then :
It echoed forth the hum of men ;
The sounds of labour on the wind,
The loud-voiced eloquence of mind;
The heart-the soul's sublime pulsations -
the shout-the shock of nations.

The song,

I hastened from the restless throng,
To soothe me with the Evening song:
The darkening heaven was vocal still,
I heard the music of the rill

The homebound bee― the vesper bell
The cicada—and philomel.

Thou Omnipresent Harmony!

Shades, streams and stars are full of thee;

Deep-deep within the spirit's cell.

WORDS TO A POPULAR AIR.*

BY J. F. W. HERSCHEL, ESQ.

WHITHER, whither shall I flee,
Far from look or thought of thee?
By what spell persuade my heart
From its baffled love to part?

Like the dove that round the Ark,
O'er those waters lone and dark,
Urging far her weary race,
Flew, yet found no resting place

So to thee my thoughts, in vain
Driven abroad, return again,
Spite of scorn and broken vow
All without is cheerless now.

Yet perchance, as worldlings say,

Time will bring a calmer day;

Years will blight love's sweetest wreath,

Absence do the work of death.

Cherry Ripe."

Say, can adverse winds assail
Him who courts no favouring gale?
Fate hold scourges yet in store

For him who hopes or loves no more?

Vain! 'tis vain. The heart, bereaved
Of all its brightest dreams conceived,
Where a stamp like thine is set,
Pines, or breaks - can ne'er forget!
Whither, whither shall I flee,
Far from look or thought of thee?

SONNET.

JANUARY 1, 1828.

The cloudless moon, after the storm dispers'd,
Held through the Heaven her high and pearly way,

The little stars attendant round her gay,

And gave good morrow to the new year first,—

A happy omen!—And may evils, nurst

In secret, fly before her cheerful ray —
Ascendant of the season, nor display
Opposing banners from some house accurst!
Yet she is changeable, and so we can
Expect no course of joy perpetual;
Enough to meet what commonly to man
Allotted, both of good and ill, may fall,
Amid all changes while we look to One
Unchanging, who directs and governs all.
R. M.

THE JEWISH PILGRIM.

NACHAMAN, the Rabbi, the son of Zechaiah, returning from a visit to the remnant of Israel in the land of the Afghans, landed at Babelmandel, on his way to weep over the tombs of his fathers in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and pass the evening of his days in the presence of his daughter Thamar. He was old, but in the vigour of intellect and virtue On touching the soil of Arabia, he prostrated himself three times on the sand, and vowed never to be rocked upon the billows again. "Henceforth," said he, "I shall tread a firm element. I shall not be tossed forward to-day fifty leagues, and to-morrow tossed backward a hundred. I shall not rub the skirts of my clothing against unbelievers, that all the water round me could not wash clean in either clothes or conscience. I shall not be compelled to see wretches growing fat upon pork, while I must join them and commit sin, or starve. I shall not be drenched from head to foot in salt water,

U

when I only want to pour enough on my hands for an ablution. I shall not be rolled about like a mad derveish in my bed, when I only want to sleep and lie in peace. I shall not be bruised, kicked, famished, sick, dungeoned, drowned. In short, I shall not be at sea; which may heaven keep in future for fishes and sailors, who are born to it. To-day, Moses be praised! I tread the land of Yemen."

His mild manners, his venerable beard, and his eating scarcely any of the ship's provisions, had conciliated the Persian captain who brought him from Ceylon. He never had a passenger that cost him so little, or that allowed of being robbed so freely; and, after insisting on being paid twice the sum for the voyage, in consideration of its having been twice the length he promised, he condescended to express his regret at parting with the Rabbi.

The

"I leave you in bad hands among these Arabs," said he; "they learn thievery from the cradle. children drink in roguery with their mother's milk; and man, woman, and child, they will rob you, with your eyes open, of your last sequin."

"I defy them," said the Rabbi, "for my last sequin is gone within these five minutes. I have taken leave of it for ever."

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True," said the Persian," and a most affec→ tionate leave it was. The tears stood in your eyes, and you looked so long at its visage, that if it has any gratitude it will remember you while it wears a face. But now, farewell. I warn you to look