Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance His praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and, wave your tops, ye pines ;
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune His praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls: ye birds
That singing up to heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise.
Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Hath gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

THE VALE OF CASHMERE.—(Moore.) Who has not heard of the vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, Its temples, and grottoes, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave? Oh! to see it at sunset,-when warm o'er the lake Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,

Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half-shown,

And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging ;

And here at the altar, a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing;

Or to see it by moonlight,-when mellowly shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars

Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet
From the cool, shining walks where the young
people meet.

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one
Out of darkness as they were just born of the sun.
When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day,
From his haram of night flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, wooes like a lover
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over,
When the east is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And day, with his banner of radiance unfurled,
Shines in through the mountainous portal that

opes,

Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world!

THE SALLY OF THE CID. Translated by F. Hookam Frere. The gates were then thrown open,

and forth at once they rushed, The outposts of the Moorish hosts

back to the camp were pushed;

The camp was all in tumult,

and there was such a thunder

Of cymbals and of drums,

as if earth would cleave in sunder.

There you might see the Moors

arming themselves in haste,

And the two main battles

how they were forming fast; Horsemen and footmen mixt,

a countless troop and vast. The Moors are moving forward,

the battle soon must join, "My men stand here in order, ranged upon a line!

Let not a man move from his rank before I give the sign."

Pero Burmuez heard the word,

but he could not refrain,

He held the banner in his hand,

he gave his horse the rein; "You see yon foremost squadron there, the thickest of the foes,

Noble Cid, God be your aid,

for there your banner goes!

Let him that serves and honours it, show the duty that he owes."

Earnestly the Cid called out,

"For Heaven's sake be still!"

Bermuez cried, "I cannot hold,"

so eager was his will.

He spurred his horse and drove him on amid the Moorish rout:

They strove to win the banner,

and compassed him about.

Had not his armour been so true,

he had lost either life or limb;

The Cid called out again,

"For Heaven's sake succour him!"

Their shields before their breasts, forth at once they go,

Their lances in the rest

levelled fair and low;

Their banners and their crests waving in a row,

Their heads all stooping down towards the saddle bow.

The Cid was in the midst,

his shout was heard afar,

"I am Rui Diaz,

the champion of Bivar; Strike amongst them, gentlemen, for sweet mercies' sake!"

There where Bermuez fought

amidst the foe they brake;

Three hundred bannered knights, it was a gallant show; Three hundred Moors they killed, a man at every blow : When they wheeled and turned, as many more lay slain,

You might see them raise their lances, and level them again.

There you might see the breastplates, how they were cleft in twain,

B

And many a Moorish shield

lie scattered on the plain.

The pennons that were white

marked with a crimson stain,

The horses running wild

whose riders had been slain

AN ADDRESS TO A MUMMY.

(Horace Smith.)

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy;
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune;
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground,
mummy!

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,

Not like thin ghosts, or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us, for doubtless thou canst recollect,

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade,