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FISHER'S 


DRAWING       ROOM 


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SCRAP    BOOK; 


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WITH      POETICAL      ILLUSTRATIONS 


BY 


L.  £•  L. 


I       UU^        A^UyMA^ 


K.^^K-^r-  . 


Gifts  are  the  beadi  of  Memory's  roury, 
WhereoD  she  rcckooft  kind  remeiabrancea 
Of  friend*  aud  old  aifectioDS. 

Christmu,  yon  bk  waleome  here ; 

CbritttDW  comee  but  ooce  a  year. 

Come — aa  in  the  good  old  time. 

With  giA,  aad  aoag,  and  tale,  and  rhyme. 


I 


LONDON: 

FISHER,   SON,  AND   JACKSON,   NEWGATE    STREET. 

1832. 


w 


INTRODUCTION. 


Though  a  preface  be  tbe  first  page  seen  in  a  volume,  it  is  always  the  last  page  written.  By 
that  time,  the  golden  age  of  hope  has  darkened  into  the  iron  age  of  fear.  The  ideas  that 
seemed  at  first  so  delightful,  are  grown  common,  by  passing  through  the  familiarizing  process 
of  writing,  printing,  and  correcting.  A  proof-sheet  is  a  terrible  reality ;  and  you  look  upon 
your  work  with  much  the  same  feeling  as  people  look  upon  the  prospect  to  which  they  are 
accustomed — they  are  much  more  alive  to  its  faults  than  its  beauties. 

For  the  Volume  now  ofiered  to  the  public,  I  must  plead  for  indulgence.  It  is  not  an  easy 
thing  to  write  illustrations  to  prints,  selected  rather  for  their  pictorial  excellence  than  their 
poetic  capabilities ;  and  mere  description  is  certainly  not  the  most  popular  species  of  com- 
position. I  have  endeavoured  to  give  as  much  variety  as  possible,  by  the  adoption  of  any  legend, 
train  of  reflection,  &c.  which  the  subject  could  possibly  suggest ;  and,  with  the  same  view, 
have  inserted  the  two  poems  marked  "  C,"  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  a  friend,  whose 
kindness  I  gratefully  acknowledge.  A  book  like  this  is  a  literary  luxury,  addressed  chiefly 
to  a  young  and  gentler  class  of  readers:  may  I  therefore  hope,  that  the  judgment  I  seek 
to  interest  will  err  on  the  side  of  kindly  allowance. 

There  are  three  portraits,  to  which  only  brief  prose  notices  are  afiixed — the  days  of  poetical 
flattery  are  as  much  past,  as  those  of  hoops  and  minuets.  What  the  genius  of  Dryden  could 
not  redeem,  I  may  be  excused  from  even  attempting. 

There   is   an    old   proverb,  "  Leave   well    alone ;"   I  shall,  therefore,    say  little  more  of 

the  embellishments  than  to  mention,  that   the  voluminous  and  expensive  works  from  which 

they  are  selected,  were  "  fountains  sealed  "  to  the  many.     I  need  not  entreat  for  the  Engravings 

that  indulgence  which  myself  required,  but  may  trust  them,  as  the  Grecian  orator  did  his  client, 

to  plead  and  win  the  cause  by  their  own  beauty. 

L.E.L. 


LIST    OF    PLATES. 


The  Princess  Victoria— Vignette  Title.  page 

Pile  of  Fouldrey  Castle ' 

Duchess  of  Kent ^ 

Carrick-a-Rede ^ 

Palace  of  the  Seven  Stories 10 

St.  Michael's  Mount 11 

The  Deaf  Schoolmaster 13 

Stori-s,  Windermere  Lake 14 

Tiger  Island 15 

Hannah  More 16 

The  Upper  Lake  of  Killaraey 17 

Hurdwar,  a  Place  of  Hindoo  Pilgrimage 18 

The  Black-Rock  Fort  and  Lighthouse 19 

Taj  Mahal,  Agra        20 

Lismore  Castle 21 

Volcano  of  Ki-rau-e-a 24 

Grass  Rope  Bridge  at  Teree 25 

Restormel  Castle 26 

Tlie  Water  Palace 27 

Right  Hon.  John  Philpot  Curran 29 

The  Vale  of  Lonsdale 30 

Fowey  Harbour  and  Polruan  Castle 31 

Skeleton  Group  in  the  Rameswur,  Caves  of  Ellora 32 

Furness  Abbey 33 

Benares 34 

The  African 35 

Curraghmore 37 

Prince  George 38 

Carclaze  Tin  Mine 39 

El  Wuish,  Red  Sea 40 

The  House  in  which  Roscoe  was  bom 41 

Jumma  Musjid,  Agra 42 

The  Giants'  Causeway 43 

Delhi 44 

Blarney  Castle 45 

The  Valley  of  Rocks 47 


DRAWING-ROOM  SCRAP   BOOK. 


THE    PRINCESS    VICTORIA. 

And  art  thou  a  Princess? — in  sooth,  we  may  well 

Go  back  to  the  days  of  the  sign  and  the  spell, 

When  a  young  queen  sat  on  an  ivory  throne 

In  a  shining  hall,  whose  windows  shone 

With  colours  its  crystals  caught  from  the  sky. 

Or  the  roof  which  a  thousand  rubies  dye ; 

Where  the  summer  garden  was  spread  around. 

With  the  date  and  the  palm  and  the  cedar  crowned  ; 

Where  fountains  played  with  the  rainbow  showers, 

Touched  with  the  hues  of  their  comrade  flowers  ; 

Where  the  tulip  and  rose  grew  side  by  side. 

One  like  a  queen,  and  one  like  a  bride ; 

One  with  its  own  imperial  flush. 

The  other  reddening  with  love's  sweet  blush ; 

When  silver  stuffs  for  her  step  were  unrolled. 

And  the  citron  was  served  on  a  plate  of  gold  ; 

When  perfumes  arose  from  pearl  caskets  filled 

With  odours  from  all  sweet  things  distilled  ; 

When  a  fairy  guarded  the  throne  from  ill. 

And  she  knew  no  rule  but  her  own  glad  will : 

Those  were  the  days  for  a  youthful  queen. 

And  such,  fair  Princess,  thou  should'st  have  been. 


THE   PRINCESS    VICTORIA. 


But  now  thou  wilt  fill  a  weary  throne, 
What  with  rights  of  the  people,  and  rights  of  thy  own  : 
An  ear-trumpet  now  thy  sceptre  should  be. 
Eternal  debate  is  the  future  for  thee. 
Lord  Brougham  will  make  a  six-hours'  oration, 
On  the  progress  of  knowledge,  the  mind  of  the  nation  ; 
Lord  Grey  one  yet  longer,  to  state  that  his  place 
Is  perhaps  less  dear  to  himself  than  his  race  ; 
O'Connell  will  tell  Ireland's  griefs  and  her  wrongs. 
In  speech,  the  mac-adamized  prose  of  Moore's  songs  : 
Good  patience !  how  weary  the  young  queen  will  be 
Of  "  the  flower  of  the  earth,  and  the  gem  of  the  sea  !" 
Mr.  Hume,  with  his  watchwords  '  Retrenchment  and  Waste, 
Will  insist  that  your  wardrobe  in  his  care  be  placed ; 
The  silk  he  will  save !  the  blonde  he  will  spare — 
I  wish  he  may  leave  Your  Grace  any  to  wear. 
That  feminine  fancy,  a  will  of  your  own. 
Is  a  luxury  wholly  denied  to  a  throne  ; 
And  this  is  your  future — ^how  soon  time  will  trace 
A  change  and  a  sign  on  that  fair  and  young  face ! 
Methinks  the  best  wish  to  be  offered  thee  now. 
Is — God  keep  the  crown  long  from  that  innocent  brow  ! 


PILE  OF  FOULDREY  CASTLE, 


LANCASHIRE. 


No  memory  of  its  former  state, 

No  record  of  its  fame, 
A  broken  wall,  a  fallen  tower, 

A  half-forgotten  name ; 
A  gloomy  shadow  on  the  wave, 
And  silence  deep  as  in  the  grave. 

And  yet  it  had  its  glorious  days, 

It  had  its  hour  of  pride, 
When  o'er  the  drawbridge  gallantly 

Its  warriors  wont  to  ride  ; 
When  silver  shield,  and  plume  of  snow, 
Were  mirror'd  in  the  wave  below. 

In  sooth,  that  was  a  stirring  time 

Of  chivalry  and  song. 
When  the  bright  spear  was  put  in  rest. 

And  the  right  arm  was  strong  ; 
When  minstrel  meed,  and  ladye's  glove. 
Were  high  rewards  of  war  and  love. 

Oh  !  vain  delusion,  cruel  days 

Were  then  upon  the  land  ; 
A  battlement  on  every  wall, 

A  sword  in  every  hand  ; 
And  rose  the  cry,  and  poured  the  flood. 
Of  human  wrong,  and  human  blood. 


PILE   OF    FOULDKEY    CASTLE. 


Then  many  a  stately  castle  stood 
O'er  dungeons  dark  and  deep  ; 

Then  many  a  noble  robber  wont 
The  king's  highway  to  keep. 

Ah  !  these  were  not  the  times  to  praise, 

Thank  God,  we  know  more  peaceful  days. 

Oh !  better  that  the  ivy  wreath 

Should  clothe  the  mouldering  tower, 

Than  it  should  be  a  place  of  strength. 
For  passion  and  for  power. 

All  glory  to  those  stern  old  times. 

But  leave  them  to  their  minstrel  rhymes. 


Her  Royal  Highness 

VICTORIA  -  MARIA  -  LOUISA 

DUCHESS  OF  KENT: 

Bom  17th  Aug.  1786; 
Married  to  H.  R.  H.  the  Duke  of  Kent,  ^Qth  May,  1818 


E^mat«d  'bf  It  ColWn 


HEB    ROYAL    HIGHWESS  VICTORIA-MARIA- LOUISA,   DUCHESS  OF  KENT 


KIARCXt.  SOW  A  CT    LOMIjON.  1*32 


CARRICK-A-REDE,     IRELAND. 


He  dwelt  amid  the  gloomy  rocks, 

A  solitary  man ; 
Around  his  home  on  every  side. 

The  deep  salt  waters  ran. 
The  distant  ships  sailed  far  away. 

And  o'er  the  moaning  wave 
The  sea-birds  swept,  with  pale  white  wings, 

As  phantoms  haunt  the  grave  : 
'Twas  dreary  on  an  autumn  night, 

To  hear  the  tempest  sweep. 
When  gallant  ships  were  perishing 

Alone  amid  the  deep. 

He  was  a  stranger  to  that  shore, 

A  stranger  he  remained, 
For  to  his  heart,  or  hearth,  or  board, 

None  ever  welcome  gained. 
Great  must  have  been  the  misery 

Of  guilt  upon  his  mind. 
That  thus  could  sever  all  the  ties 

Between  him  and  his  kind. 
His  step  was  slow,  his  words  were  few, 

His  brow  was  worn  and  wan  ; 
He  dwelt  among  those  gloomy  rocks, 

A  solitary  man. 


The  romantic  anecdote,  to  which  the  above  lines  have  reference,  is  a  true  one. — A  manuscript  journal 
of  a  Tour  through  the  Western  Islands  of  Scotland,  and  along  the  Northern  Coast  of  Ireland,  in  1746,  con- 
tains the  following  passage  : — 

"  Carrick-a-Ueid  is  a  great  rock,  cut  off  from  the  shore  by  a  chasm  of  fearful  depth,  through  which  the 
sea,  when  vexed  by  angry  winds,  boileth  with  great  fury.  It  is  resorted  to  at  this  season  of  the  year  by  fishers, 
for  the  taking  of  salmon,  who  sling  themselves  across  the  perilous  gulf  by  means  of  a  stout  rope,  or  withe,  as 
the  Dame  Carrick-a-Reid  imports.  I  was  told,  that,  all  through  the  inclemency  of  last  winter,  there  dwelled 
here  a  solitary  stranger,  of  noble  mien,  in  an  unseemly  hut,  made  by  his  own  hands.  The  people,  in  speaking 
of  the  stranger,  called  him,  from  his  aspect,  '  The  Man  of  Sorrow;'  and  'tis  not  unlikely,  poor  gentleman,  he 
was  one  of  the  rebels  who  fled  out  of  Scotland." 

In  the  second  volume  of"  Wakefield's  Ireland,"  a  particular  account  of  Carrick-a-Rede,  its  fishery,  and 
"  very  extraordinary  flying  bridge,"  may  be  found. 


10 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  SEVEN   STORIES. 


The  past  it  is  a  fearful  thins;, 
With  an  eagle's  sweep,  and  a  tiger's  spring. 
Here  was  a  palace,  the  dwelling  of  kings, 
Now  to  its  turrets  the  creeping  plant  clings. 


The  past  it  is  a  mighty  grave  ; 
What  remains  for  the  present  to  save  ? 
A  few  sad  thoughts,  a  few  brief  words. 
These  are  the  richest  of  memory's  hoards. 


Where  temples  stood ,  the  tamarinds  giow  ; 
Broken  columns  are  mouldering  below. 
No  steps  are  heard  in  the  ruined  hall. 
Such  is  man's  pride,  and  such  is  its  fall. 


The  Seven-storied  Palace  is  a  ruin  of  great  beauty.  Captain  Sykes  states,  "  tliat  it  must  have  been  a 
splendid  building ;  the  remains  of  carved  work  and  gilding  indicate  that  no  expense  or  art  was  spared." 
Bejapore  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  cities  in  Hindostan.  Immense  tamarind  trees  spread  their  rich  foliage 
over  the  magnificent  remains  of  mosques  and  mausoleums,  or  partially  cover  some  finely  broken  palace  or  beautiful 
tank.  Tradition  records  a  characteristic  anecdote  of  the  building  of  the  palace.  "  The  inhabitants  ef  a  small 
village  called  Kejgunally,  complaining  of  the  injury  they  were  exposed  to,  from  the  works  in  progress,  the 
king,  with  a  whimsical  affectation  of  justice,  surrounded  them  with  a  high  wall.  The  village,  in  the  course  of 
time,  disappeared  ;  but  the  wall  remains,  and  is  pointed  out  as  a  proof  of  the  severe  justice  of  the  king,  who 
chose  rather  to  comply  with  the  literal  wish  of  the  inhabitants,  of  being  protected  from  injury,  than  remove  them 
by  force  to  a  more  desirable  spot." 


i 

§ 


H 


11 


ST.    MICHAEL'S    MOUNT. 


"  The  romantic  Castle  of  St  Michael's,  situated  upon  a  lofty  insulated  hill,  in  Mount's  Bay,  is  the  theme  of 
many  a  Cornish  legend ;  the  most  prevalent  supposes  that  their  '  long-lost  Arthur'  resides  there,  under  the 
immediate  guardianship  of  the  archangel,  until  the  time  appointed  for  his  return  to  earth  ;  and  it  is  to  this 
Milton  alludes,  when  he  says — 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  Mount 

Looks  to  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold." 

[A'ote  to  Verses  privately  printed  by  the  late  Sir  Hardinge 
Giffard,  at  the  Wesleyan  Mission  Press,  Colombo.'i 


O  Fou  the  glorious  days  of  old, 
When  Arthur  and  his  cliampions  bold. 
With  iron  hand,  from  cup  of  gold. 

Drank  to  the  table  round  ! 
Entranced  beneath  St.  Michael's  keep, 
Now  Arthur  and  his  warriors  sleep 
Their  charmed  slumber,  long  and  deep 

In  magic  thraldom  bound. 

Say,  when  shall  come  the  fated  mom. 
To  rouse  them  from  the  rest  they  scorn  ? 
Say,  when  shall  sound  the  wizard  horn, 
To  wake  them  to  the  strife  ?* 
"  When  on  her  base  of  noble  rock, 
Britain  shall  yield  to  ocean's  shock. 
Fate  will  their  prison-door  unlock. 

And  call  them  into  life  :" 


•  According  to  the  legend  concerning  the  sleep  of  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  they  are  to 
be  awakened  by  the  sound  of  a  magic  horn,  when  England  is  on  the  point  of  being  conquered ;  and  they  will 
then  rush  to  the  fight,  and  overcome  the  invaders. — A  similar  legend  is  related  in  Wales,  of  Owen  Lawgoch, 
or  Owen  of  the  Bloody  Hand,  who,  like  Arthur  in  St.  Michael's  Mount,  is  supposed  to  sleep  in  the  Mountain  of 
Mynnydd  Mawr  near  Llandilo  in  Carmarthenshire. — "  Almost  in  our  days,"  says  a  writer  in  the  Quarterly 
Review,  No.  xliv.  "  it  was  thought  that  Sebastian  of  Portugal  would  one  day  return,  and  claim  his  usurped 
realms. — Thus  also  the  three  founders  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy  are  thought  to  sleep  in  a  cavern  near  the 
Lake  of  Lucerne.  The  herdsmen  call  them  the  Three  Tells,  and  say  that  they  lie  there  in  their  antique  garb  in 
quiet  slumber,  and,  when  Switzerland  is  in  her  utmost  need,  they  will  awaken,  and  regain  the  liberties  of  the 
land," — In  the  same  work,  we  are  told  that  "  The  Emperor  (Frederick  Barbarosa,  or  Red-beard)  is  secluded 


12  ST.      MICHAELS      MOUNT. 


'  But  not  'till  then — and  while  unfurl'd 
Is  Britain's  flag  throughout  the  world. 
She  will  not  from  her  throne  be  hurled, 

Or  need  St.  Michael's  host." 
So  sleep  ye  on,  ye  ancient  men  ! 
Entombed  within  your  murky  den, 
*Tis  dull  enough  ;  if  not  tell  then 

Ye  quaff  the  circling  toast. 


in  the  Castle  of  KytThaiisen,  in  the  Hercynian  forest,  where  he  remains  in  a  state  not  much  unlike  the  descrip- 
tion which  Cervantes  has  given  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Cavern  of  Moutesinos :  he  slumbers  on  his  throne ; 
his  red  beard  has  grown  through  the  stone  table  on  which  his  right  arm  reclines ;  or,  as  some  say,  it  has  grown 
round  and  round  it. — A  variation  of  the  same  fable,  coloured  according  to  its  locality,  is  found  in  Denmark ; 
where  it  is  said,  that  Holger  Danske,  whom  the  Prench  romances  call  Ogier  the  Dane,  slumbers  in  the  vaults 
beneath  Cronenburgh  Castle.  A  villain  was  once  allured  by  splendid  offers  to  descend  into  the  cavern,  and 
visit  the  half-torpid  hero.  Ogier  muttered  to  the  visitor,  requesting  him  to  stretch  out  his  hand.  The  villain 
presented  an  iron  crow  to  Ogier,  who  grasped  it,  indenting  the  metal  with  his  fingers.  'It  is  well!'  quoth 
Ogier,  who  imagined  he  was  squeezing  the  hand  of  the  stranger,  and  thus  provoking  his  strength  and  fortitude  ; 
'  there  are  yet  men  in  Denmark.' " 

It  has  been  recently  and  justly  remarked  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  one  of  bis  notes  on  Peveril  of  the  Peak — 
that  "  Superstitions  of  various  countries  are  in  every  respect  so  like  each  other,  that  they  may  be  referred  to 
one  common  source  ;  unless  we  conclude  that  they  are  natural  to  the  human  mind,  and,  like  the  common  orders 
of  vegetables,  which  naturally  spring  up  in  every  climate,  these  naturally  arise  in  every  bosom ;  as  the  best  phi- 
lologists are  of  opinion,  that  fragments  of  an  original  speech  are  to  be  discovered  in  almost  all  languages  in 
the  globe." 


Hur.iod    br  Mojii-y    ttej, 


Kre"!-*"-fd  -py   r.Mc',.- 


T  )K[  E  Tj  :e  a :?    s  v  m  d  oiL    m  a  s  '^r  si  3R  , 


n;:trF.R  sow  a-  c?  i  ondcn.  iB.ti. 


13 


THE     DEAF     SCHOOLMASTER. 


He  cannot  hear  the  skylark  sing, 
The  music  of  the  wild  bee's  wing ; 
The  murmur  of  the  plaining  bough  ; 
A  gentle  whisper  fairy  low ; 
The  noise  of  falling  waters  near — 
All  these  have  left  his  mournful  ear. 
A  sad,  sad  silence,  whose  worst  power 
Is  felt  in  others'  gladdest  hour. 
But,  ah,  to  what  can  it  not  move 
Th'  unconquerable  strength  of  love  ! 
See  how  he  bends  above  the  page, 
For  him — the  child  of  his  old  age. 
The  ear  is  deaf,  the  eye  is  dim. 
Yet  anxious  and  alive  for  him. 
How  deep  and  tender  is  the  debt, 
Whose  seal  on  that  young  heart  is  set ; 
Little,  perchance,  may  be  the  aid, 
Not  so  the  fondness  which  essayed 
To  help  amid  this  learned  coil, 
And  smooth  the  youthful  student's  toil. 
Mid  all  the  sorrow  and  the  crime, 
Man's  destiny  from  earliest  time  ; 
Mid  all  that  can  debase,  degrade. 
How  beautiful  this  earth  is  made, 
By  pure  affection,  deep  and  dear. 
Affection  like  that  pictured  here  ! 


14 


STORES,    WINDERMERE    LAKE. 


I  WOULD  I  had  a  charmed  bark , 

To  sail  that  lovely  lake  ; 
Nor  should  another  prow  but  mine 

Its  silver  silence  wake. 
No  oar  should  cleave  its  sunny  tide ; 

But  I  would  float  along, 
As  if  the  breath  that  filled  my  sail 

Were  but  a  murmured  song. 

Then  I  would  tliink  all  pleasant  thoughts  ; 

Live  early  youth  anew, 
When  hope  took  tones  of  prophecy, 

And  tones  of  music  too ; 
And  coloured  life  with  its  own  hues — 

The  heart's  true  Claude  Lorraine — 
The  rich,  the  warm,  the  beautiful, 

I'd  live  them  once  again. 

Kind  faces  flit  before  my  eyes. 

Sweet  voices  fill  my  ear, 
And  friends  I  long  have  ceased  to  love, 

I'll  still  think  loved,  and  here. 
With  such  fair  phantasies  to  fill,     ^^  ,,„,, 

Sweet  Lake,  thy  summer  air ; 
If  thy  banks  were  not  Paradise, 

Yet  should  I  dream  they  were. 


The  calm  and  picturesque  scenery  of  the  Lake  of  Windermere  might  awake  a  thousand  far  more  romantic 
visions  than  that  of  the  return  of  the  first  warm  feelings  of  youth.  Shut  out  as  it  were  from  the  world,  and 
enshrined  in  delicious  seclusion  ;  here  might  the  weary  heart  dream  itself  away,  and  find  the  freshness  of  the 
spring-time  of  the  spirit  return  upon  it.  Here,  at  the  mansion  of  Colonel  John  Bolton — a  circumstance  which 
gives  interest  to  the  plate — did  the  late  Mr.  Canning  retire  from  the  whirl  of  public  affairs  ;  and,  to  use  the 
words  of  Fisher's  Illustrations  of  Lancashire,  "  here  was  restored,  in  some  measure,  the  elasticity  of  a  mind, 
whose  lofty  energies  were  ultimately,  and  for  our  country  we  may  say  prematurely,  exhausted  in  the  preserva- 
tion of  a  nation's  welfare." 


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15 


THE  PIRATE'S  SONG  OFF  THE  TIGER    ISLAND 


Our  prize  is  won,  our  chase  is  o'er, 
Turn  the  vessel  to  the  shore. 
Place  yon  rock,  so  that  the  wind, 
Like  a  prisoner,  howl  behind  ; 
Which  is  darkest — wave,  or  cloud  ? 
One  a  grave,  and  one  a  shroud. 
Though  the  thunder  rend  the  sky, 
Though  the  echoing  wind  reply. 
Though  the  lightning  sweep  the  seas. 
We  are  used  to  nights  like  these  ; 
Let  it  foam,  the  angry  main — 
Washing  out  the  blood-red  stain. 
Which  the  evening  conflict  threw 
O'er  the  waters  bright  and  blue. 
Though  above  the  thunder  break. 
Twill  but  drown  our  victims'  shriek  ; 
And  the  lightning's  serpent  coil. 
Will  but  glimmer  o'er  our  spoil : 
Maidens,  in  whose  orient  eyes. 
More  than  morning's  sunshine  lies — 
Honour  to  the  wind  and  waves. 
While  they  yield  us  such  sweet  slaves — 
Shawls  the  richest  of  Cashmere, 
Pearls  from  Oman's  bay  are  here ; 
And  Golconda's  royal  mine 
Sends  her  diamonds  here  to  shine  ; 
Let  the  stars  at  midnight  glow. 
We  have  brighter  stars  below ; 
Leave  the  planet  of  the  pole 
Just  to  guide  us  to  our  goal, 
We'd  not  change  for  heaven's  own  stars. 
Yon  glad  heap  of  red  dinars  ;* 


•  An  Indian  coin. 


16  THE  pirate's  song  OFF  THE  TIGER  ISLAND. 


See  the  crimson  silks  unfold. 
And  the  slender  chains  of  gold, 
Like  the  glittering  curls  descending. 
When  the  bright  one's  head  is  bending ; 
And  the  radiant  locks  fall  over. 
Or  her  mirror  or  her  lover. 
On  which  face  she  likes  to  dwell, 
Twere  a  prophet's  task  to  tell ; 
All  those  crystal  flasks  enclose 
Sighs  of  the  imprisoned  rose  ; 
And  those  porcelain  urns  are  filled 
By  sweet  Indian  wood  distilled  ; 
And  behold  those  fragrant  piles. 
Spice  from  the  Manilla  isles, 
Nutmegs,  cloves,  and  cinnamon — 
But  our  glorious  task  is  done. 
Little  dreamed  the  merchant's  care 
Who  his  precious  freight  should  share — 
Fill  the  wine-cup  to  the  brim, 
Our  first  health  shall  be  to  him. 


HANNAH     MORE, 
BORN  174.5. 


Our  limits  are  too  brief  for  us  to  do  more  than  allude  to  the  many 
Works,  in  which  this  accomplished  Lady  has  advanced  the  cause  of 
sincere  piety  and  Christian  morality. 


"i 


HANNAH       MORE. 


nsaxst,  8CW  &  c  i.owi>on,  ib-ti. 


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17 


THE    UPPER  LAKE   OF   KILLARNEY. 


Why  doth  the  maiden  turn  away 

From  voice  so  sweet,  and  words  so  dear  ? 
Why  doth  the  maiden  turn  away 

Wlien  love  and  flattery  woo  her  ear  ? 
And  rarely  that  enchanted  twain 
Whisper  in  woman's  ear  in  vain. 

Why  doth  the  maiden  leave  the  hall  ? 

No  face  is  fair  as  hers  is  fair, 
No  step  has  such  a  fairy  fall. 

No  azure  eyes  like  hers  are  there. 

The  maiden  seeks  her  lonely  bower, 

Although  her  father's  guests  are  met ; 
She  knows  it  is  the  midnight  hour, 

She  knows  the  first  pale  star  is  set. 
And  now  the  silver  moon-beams  wake 
The  spirits  of  the  haunted  Lake. 

The  waves  take  rainbow  hues,  and  now 

The  shining  train  are  gliding  by, 
Their  chieflain  lifts  his  glorious  brow, 
The  maiden  meets  his  lingering  eye. 

The  glittering  shapes  melt  into  night ; 

Another  look,  their  chief  is  gone. 
And  chill  and  gray  comes  morning's  light. 
And  clear  and  cold  the  Lake  flows  on  ; 
Close,  close  the  casement,  not  for  sleep. 
Over  such  visions  eyes  but  weep. 
How  many  share  such  destiny. 

How  many,  lured  by  fancy's  beam. 
Ask  the  impossible  to  be, 

And  pine,  the  victims  of  a  dream. 


The  romantic  story  of  Kate  Kearney,  "  who  dwelt  by  the  shore  of  Killarney,"  is  too  well  known  to  need 
repetition.  She  is  said  to  have  cherished  a  visionary  passion  for  O'Donoghue,  an  enchanted  chieftain  who 
haants  those  beaatiful  Lakes,  and  to  have  died  the  victim  "  of  folly,  of  love,  and  of  madness." 


18 


HURDWAR,* 


A    PLACE   OF    HINDOO    PILGRIMAGE. 


I  LOVE  the  feeling  which,  in  former  days, 
Sent  men  to  pray  amid  the  desert's  gloom, 
Where  hermits  left  a  cell,  or  saints  a  tomb  ; 
Good  springs  alike  from  penitence  and  praise, 
From  aught  that  can  the  mortal  spirit  raise : 

And  though  the  faith  be  false,  the  hope  be  vain, 
That  brought  the  Hindoo  to  his  idol  fane  ; 
Yet  one  all-sacred  truth  his  deed  conveys — 
How  still  the  heart  doth  its  Creator  own, 

Mid  strange  idolatry  and  savage  rite, 
A  consciousness  of  power  eternal  shown. 

How  man  relies  on  some  superior  might. 
The  soul  mid  darkness  feels  its  birth  divine. 
And  owns  the  true  God  in  the  false  god's  shrine. 


•  Hurdwar,  or  Haridwar,  means  the  gate  of  Vishnoo,  the  Prinsir.  Tlie  Hindoos  perform  this  pilgrimage,  to 
batlie  in  a  particular  spot  of  the  Ganges,t  at  the  time  when  the  sun  enters  the  sign  Aries.  A  fair  is  then  held, 
which,  thanlcs  to  the  precautions  taken  by  tlie  British  government,  has,  of  late  years,  gone  off  without  bloodshed. 
"  At  the  annual  fairs,  it  is  supposed,  from  200,000  to  300,000  persons  are  collected.  Once  in  twelve  years, 
when  particular  ceremonies  are  performed,  the  number  of  those  present  has  been  computed  at  one  million." — 
Hamilton's  Gazetteer. 

t  "  Parvati,  the  bride  of  Siva,  ventured  one  day  to  cover  his  eyes  with  her  hands.  Thereupon  all  the  functions 
of  life  were  suspended — time  stood — nay,  the  drops  poured  from  Siva's  brow,  to  think  of  the  awful  consequences 
arising  from  his  almighty  eye  relaxing  from  its  eternal  watchfulness.  From  these  drops,  the  Ganges  had  its 
divine  origin ;  hence  the  veneration  of  the  Hindoos  for  the  sacred  river." — Asiatic  Researches. 


19 


THE   BLACK-ROCK   FORT  AND    LIGHT-HOUSE. 


Thank  God,  thank  God— the  beacon  light 
Is  breaking  beautiful  through  night ; 
Urge  the  boat  through  the  surge,  once  more 
We  are  beside  our  English  shore. 

Oh !  weary  nights  and  days  to  me 
Have  set  and  risen  upon  the  sea ; 
I  never  wish  to  sail  again 
O'er  the  interminable  main. 

Tis  wonderful  to  see  the  sky 
Hang  out  her  guiding  stars  on  high. 
And  mirror'd  in  the  ocean  fair. 
As  if  another  heaven  were  there. 

And  glorious  is  it  thus  to  go. 
The  white  foam  dashing  from  the  prow, 
As  our  ship  through  the  waves  hath  gone. 
Mistress  of  all  she  looked  upon. 

But  weary  is  it  for  the  eye 
To  only  meet  the  sea  and  sky; 
And  weary  is  it  for  the  ear 
But  only  winds  and  waves  to  hear. 

I  pined  for  leaves,  I  pined  for  flowers. 
For  meadows  green,  with  driving  showers  ; 
For  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  life. 
Wherewith  the  air  of  earth  is  rifet 

Farewell,  wild  waves,  again  I  come 
To  England  and  my  English  home; 
Thank  God,  thank  God,  the  beacon  light 
I«  breaking  beautiful  through  night. 


40 


THE    TAJ-MAHAL,    AT    AGRA. 

THE  TOMB  OF  MUNTAZA  ZEMAKI. 


"  Aye,  build  it  on  these  banks,"  the  monarch  said, 
"  That  when  the  autumn  winds  have  swept  the  sea, 
They  may  come  hither  with  their  falling  rains, 
A  voice  of  mighty  weeping  o'er  her  grave." 


They  brought  the  purest  marble  that  the  eardi 
E'er  treasured  from  the  sun,  and  ivory 
Was  never  yet  more  delicately  carved  : 
Then  cupolas  were  raised,  and  minarets, 
And  flights  of  lofty  steps,  and  one  vast  dome 
Rose  till  it  met  the  clouds :  richly  inlaid 
With  red  and  black,  this  palace  of  the  dead 
Exhausted  wealth  and  skill.     Around  its  walls 
The  cypresses  like  funeral  columns  stood, 
And  lamps  perpetual  burnt  beside  the  tomb. 
And  yet  the  emperor  felt  it  was  in  vain, 
A  desolate  magnificence  that  mocked 
The  lost  one,  and  the  loved,  which  it  enshrined. 


Munt^a  Zem&ni  was  the  wife  of  Shah  Jehan,  emperor  of  HindoBtan.  The  magnificent  mausoleum,  which 
it  was  some  consolation  to  erect,  was  one  of  the  many  human  vanities  that  mock  their  founders.  Shah  Jehan 
past  from  a  prison  to  his  gorgeous  tomb.  For  the  last  eight  years  of  his  life  he  was  confined  in  the  fort  of 
Agra,  by  his  son,  Aurungzebe.  An  Italian  artist,  who  saw  this  most  exquisite  specimen  of  Mahommedan  archi- 
tecture, regretted  there  was  not  a  glass-case  to  cover  it.  The  pure  whiteness  of  the  marble  is  powerfully  con- 
trasted to  the  dark  green  of  its  avenue  of  cypresses. 


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21 


LISMORE   CASTLE. 


How  calmly,  Lismore,  do  thy  battlements  rise 

O'er  the  light  woods  around  thee,  whose  changing  leave?  quiver. 
As  the  sad  wind  of  Autumn,  with  fitful  gust  sighs, 

And  mingles  its  voice  with  the  rush  of  the  river. 

Though  thou  art  unmoved,  like  a  warrior's  crest 

By  the  rustle  of  leaves,  or  the  dark  water's  flowing,* 

The  music  of  Autumn  awakes  in  my  breast 

A  flutter  of  thoughts,  at  once  gloomy  and  glowing ! 

I  see  thee,  Lismore,  if  I  dream  of  the  past. 

And  look  at  thy  fame  thro'  a  vista  of  ages  ; 
I  see  thee,  when  Europe  with  night  was  o'ercast. 

The  chosen  retreat  of  her  students  and  sages.f 

Tho'  saints  and  tho'  bishops,  the  holy  and  pure, 

With  the  mighty  of  nations,J  came  here  to  be  schooled 

Yet — O  may  the  benefit  longer  endure. 

Here  was  it  that  England  o'er  Ireland  first  ruled.§ 


*  "  Swift  Awniduff,  which  of  the  Englishman 

Is  called  Blaekwater."  Spetuer't  Fairy  Queen,  b.  iv.  c.  xi. 

t "  Nothing  is  better  established  in  history,  than  that  Ireland,  during  part  of  the  sixth,  the  seventh,  eighth, 
and  ninth  centories,  was  the  chief  seat  of  learning  in  the  west.  The  authorities  upon  this  head  are  very 
Dumeroas.  They  are  of  all  nations,  and  above  all  suspicion.  Students  from  every  part  of  the  christian  world 
resorted  to  Ireland  for  the  purposes  of  study,  and  crowded  the  balls  of  Armagh,  Timologue,  Lismore,  and  other 
schools  and  colleges."  O'DriacoVs  History  of  Ireland, 

%  "  Lismore,"  says  Mr.  Ryland  in  his  history  of  Waterford  is,  "  the  school  from  which  it  is  believed  Alfred 
derived  the  knowledge  which  has  since  immortalized  his  name." — Popular  tradition  asserts  that  two  Greek 
princes  were  educated  at  Lismore  in  the  seventh  century. 

§  In  1172,  Henry  II.  first  promulgated  English  law  in  Ireland,  after  the  conquest,  or  invasion  of  the  country. 

I  hope  I  may  be  forgiven  the  pedantry  of  a  quotation  from  the  venerable  Matthew  Paris "  Rex  antequam 

ab  Hibemia  redibat,  concilium  congregavit  apud  Lismore,  ubi  leges  AngliEe  ab  omnibus  gratenter,  sunt  acceptae  et 
juratoria  cautione  praestita  confirmatae." 


2?  I.ISMORE     CASTLE. 

And  here  did  the  poet,  the  bard  of  old  Mole,* 
In  the  magic  of  converse  delightedly  wander. 

With  "  the  shepherd  of  ocean,"  whose  chivalrous  soul 

But  dai-ed  and  but  conquered,  more  bravely  to  squander.f 

Here  dwelt  "the  great  Earl,"t  who,  if  credit  to  Laud 

May  be  given,  God's  gifts  did  most  strangely  inherit,|| 


■  Kilcoleman,  the  residence  of  Edmund  Spenser,  is  not  more  than  twenty  miles  distant  from  Lismore 

And  as  the  Castle  of  Lismore,  which  was  on  episcopal  residence,  had  been,  as  some  old  letter-writer,  whose 
quaint  phraseology  haunts  my  memory,  expresses  it,  "  tome  from  that  See  by  the  power  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh ;" 
it  is  no  stretch  of  imagination  to  picture  the  mental  intercourse  which  existed  between  Raleigh  and  Spenser, 
upon  the  romantic  banks  of  the  Blackwater. — "  The  poem  called  '  Colin  Clouts  came  home  again,'  in  which  Sir 
Walter  is  described  under  the  name  of  '  the  Shepherd  of  the  Ocean,' "  is,  remarks  Dr.  Smith,  "  a  beautiful 
memorial  of  this  friendship,  which  took  its  rise  from  a  likeness  of  taste  in  the  polite  arts,  and  is  thus  agreeably 
described  by  him  (Spenser)  after  the  pastoral  manner. 

"  I  sat,  as  was  my  trade, 

Under  the  fort  of  Mole,  that  mountain  hore  ; 

Keeping  my  sheep  amongst  the  coolly  shade 

Of  the  green  alders,  by  the  MuIIa's  shore. 

There  a  strange  shepherd  chanced  to  find  me  out. 

Whether  allured  with  my  pipe's  delight. 

Whose  pleasing  sound  yshrilled  far  about ; 

Or  thither  led  by  chance,  I  know  not  right : 

Whom  when  1  asked,  from  what  place  he  came. 

And  how  he  hight  ?  himself  he  did  ycleep 

The  Shepherd  of  the  Ocean  by  name, 

And  said  he  came  far  from  the  main  sea  deep." 

t  How  the  considerable  estates  in  Ireland  granted  to  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  (above  12,000  acres,  in  the  richest 
parts  of  the  counties  of  Cork  and  Waterford,)  passed  into  other  hands,  is  a  piece  of  secret  history  yet  unex- 
plained by  Mr.  D'Israeli  and  his  associates,  in  this  valuable  and  interesting  department  of  our  literature. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Lemon  of  the  State  Paper  OfiSce  would  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  a  petition  from  Lady  Kaleigh, 
written  after  her  husband's  execution,  and  praying  to  have  his  Irish  estates  restored  to  her ;  Sir  Walter  having 

been  swindled  out  of  them  by  Lord  Cork This  document  would  throw  new  light  upon  Lord  Cork's  history  ; 

and  such,  I  have  good  reason  for  believing,  exists. 

t  Of  Cork. 

n  "  Over  the  gate"  of  Lismore  castle  "  are  the  arms  of  the  great  Earl  of  Cork,  with  this  humble  motto, 
'  God's  Providence  is  our  Inheritance.'  Archbishop  Laud  thus  addresses  Lord  Cork, — '  And  whereas  your 
Lordship  writes  at  the  latter  end  of  your  letters,  that  you  bestow  a  great  part  of  your  estates  and  time  in  cha- 
ritable works ;  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  it :  but  withal,  your  Lordship  will,  I  hope,  give  me  leave  to  deal  freely 
with  you.  And  then  I  must  tell  your  Lordship,  if  you  have  done  as  you  write,  you  have  suffered  strangely 
for  many  years  together  by  the  tongues  of  men,  who  have  often  and  confidently  affirmed  that  you  have  not  been 
a  very  good  friend  to  the  church,  in  the  point  of  her  maintenance. — I  hope  these  reports  are  not  true  :  but  if 
they  be,  I  cannot  call  your  works  charitable,  having  no  better  foundation  than  the  livelihood  of  the  church 
taken  away  to  do  them."  Strafford's  State  Letters. 


LISMORE      CASTLE.  23 


Retaining  by  force  what  he  pounced  on  by  fraud — 

Though  I  love  the  romance  of  young  Broghill's  bright  spirit.* 

And  here  did  philosophy  welcome  a  Boyle, 

Whose  name  is  by  science  encircled  with  glory ;+ 

And  here  did  the  runaway  monarch  recoil 

At  a  peep  of  that  river,  seen  from  the  ground-story. t 

When  sages,  kings,  nobles,  and  soldiers  thus  crowd, 
With  the  bard,  of  whose  fancy  I  never  shall  weary, 

Am  I  wrong,  if  I  feel  of  these  names  the  most  proud, 

To  be  Spenser,  the  titleless  minstrel  of  Faery  ?  c. 


•  Lord  Broghill,  afterwards  Earl  of  Orrery,  the  third  son  of  the  first  Earl  of  Cork  defended  the  Castle 
of  Lismore  for  his  father  in  the  disturbances  of  1641,  to  whom  he  thus  concludes  a  letter  on  the  subject: — 
"  My  Lord,  fear  nothing  for  Lismore ;  for,  if  it  be  lost,  it  shall  be  with  the  life  of  him  that  begs  your  Lordship's 
blessing,  and  styles  himself  your  Lordship's  most  humble,  most  obliged,  and  most  dutiful  son  and  servant, 
Bboghill."  Orrery's  State  Letters. 

t  Robert  Boyle,  the  philosopher,  and  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Royal  Society,  was  born  in  the  Castle  of 
Lismore,  on  the  25th  January,  1026-7.  To  those  who  are  superstitious,  it  may  be  interesting  to  know  that  he 
was  the  seventh  ion,  and  fourteenth  child,  of  Lord  Cork. — Ryland,  says  Lismore,  is  also  the  birth-place  of 
Congreve. 

%  James  II.  on  his  retreat  to  Waterford,  after  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  dined  in  Lismore  Castle,  and,  going 
to  look  ont  at  the  window,  started  back  in  surprise — "One  does  not,"  says  Dr.  Smith,  "perceive  at  tbe 
entrance  into  tbe  Castle  that  the  building  is  situated  on  such  an  eminence,  nor  can  a  stranger  know  it  till  he 
looks  out  of  the  window,  which  in  respect  to  the  Castle  is  but  a  ground-floor."  History  of  Waterford. 


34 


THE   VOLCANO   OF   Kl-RAU-E-A. 


EXTRACT    FROM   STEWABT  S  JOURNAL   OF   A    RESIDENCE   IN    THE   SANDWICH    ISLANDS. 

"  Standing  at  an  elevation  of  one  thousand  fire  hundred  feet,  we  looked  into  a  black  and  horrid  gulf,  not 
less  than  eight  miles  in  circumference,  so  directly  beneath  ua,  that,  in  appearance,  we  might,  by  a  single  leap, 
have  plunged  into  its  lowest  depth.  The  hideous  immensity  itself,  independent  of  the  many  frightful  images 
which  it  embraced,  almost  caused  an  involuntary  closing  of  the  eyes  against  it.  But  when  to  the  sight  is  added 
the  appalling  effect  of  the  various  unnatural  and  fearful  noises,  the  muttering  and  sighing,  the  groaning  and 
blowing,  the  every  agonized  struggling,  of  the  mighty  action  within,  as  a  whole,  it  is  too  horrible.  And  for  the 
first  moment  I  felt  like  one  of  my  friends,  who,  on  reaching  the  brink,  recoiled,  and  covered  his  face,  exclaiming, 
"  Call  it  ^cedkneti,  or  what  you  pleate,  but  J  cannot  look  again."— f.  375. 


An  ebbing  tide  of  fire,  the  evil  powers 

In  fear  and  anger  here  are  paramount, 

Rending  the  bosom  of  the  fertile  earth, 

And  spreading  desolation.     Black  as  night, 

And  terrible,  as  if  the  grave  had  sent 

Its  own  dark  atmosphere  to  upper  air. 

The  heavy  vapours  rise ;  from  out  the  smoke 

Break  the  red  volumes  of  the  central  flame. 

And  lava  floods  and  burning  showers  descend, 

Parching  the  soil  to  barrenness. 

And  yet  there  is  the  principle  of  life 

Within  that  fiery  waste :  when  years  have  past. 

And  Time,  the  beautifier,  has  been  there. 

Then  will  the  fierce  volcano  have  consumed 

Its  depths  of  flame,  and  there  the  coral  reef 

Will  spread ;  at  first  a  bleak  and  dangerous  waste ; 

Until  the  wind  bear  on  its  wandering  wings 

The  fertilizing  seeds;  the  salt  sea  tide 

Leave  shells  and  weeds  behind,  to  vegetate. 

The  birds  will  come  o'er  ocean,  and  delight 

To  find  a  tranquil  home  remote  from  men. 

Flowers  will  spring  up,  and  trees ;  and  last  some  ship 

Will  penetrate  the  waste  of  waters  round. 

And  marvel  at  the  lovely  solitude. 


According  to  the  theory  generally  received  at  present  among  scientific  men,  the  numerous  coral  islands  of 
the  Pacific  are  supposed  to  be  formations  upon  extinct  volcanoes. 


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25 


THE   GRASS-ROPE    BRIDGE,    AT   TEREE, 

IN    THE    PROVINCE    OF    GURWALL. 

"The  English  who  have  lost  their  health,  often  resort  to  these  hills  for  the  hot  season,  where  the  air  and 
exercise  are  sometimes  as  beneficial  as  the  voyage  to  Europe."  The  following  verses  allude  to  the  early  death 
of  a  young  friend,  who,  adopted  by  some  distant  relatives,  accompanied  them  to  India ;  and  died  in  this 
very  spot,  whither  she  had  been  taken  for  the  recovery  of  her  health. 

We  had  to  watch  the  fading 
Of  that  young  and  lovely  cheek, 
And  that  pale  lip's  mute  upbraiding. 
Which  asked  not  sound  to  speak. 

We  saw  that  she  was  pining 
For  her  own  loved  English  land, 
And  her  life's  sweet  light  declining. 
For  she  loathed  our  Indian  strand ; 

Her  heart  was  with  her  mother, 
Far  o'er  the  salt  sea  foam, 
And  she  could  not  love  another, 
As  she  loved  her  early  home. 

She  clung  with  love  too  tender 
To  every  former  scene, 
For  one  of  Eastern  splendour. 
To  be  what  they  had  been. 

Alas,  why  did  we  bring  her 
To  this  golden  land  in  vain  ? 
Ah,  would  that  we  could  wing  her 
To  her  native  land  again  ! 

We  never  see  her  weeping. 
But  we  know  that  she  does  weep  ; 
And  she  names  loved  names  in  sleeping, 
As  she  names  them  but  in  sleep. 

We  watch  one  bright  spot  burning 
On  her  cheek  of  hectic  red, 
And  we  dread  each  day's  returning, 
Lest  it  rise  but  for  the  dead. 


4 


S6 


RESTORMEL  CASTLE. 


It  was  the  last  Chief  of  Restorrael, 

He  sat  within  his  tower, 
Dim  burnt  the  hearth,  and  pale  was  the  lamp, 

For  it  was  the  midnight  hour. 

It  was  not  the  sound  of  a  mortal  voice. 
Though  it  spoke  with  a  mortal  word, 

Mid  the  howl  of  the  wind,  and  the  dash  of  the  wave, 
That  the  Chief  of  Restormel  heard. 

He  heard  a  shriek  on  the  midnight  wind, 

And  he  heard  a  dying  groan ; 
Each  gust  through  the  sky,  that  went  hurrying  by, 

Brought  his  murdered  brother's  moan. 

The  dark  hearth  hissed  with  the  falling  rain. 

The  lamp  would  burn  no  more ; 
But  redder  and  redder  the  bloodspots  grew 

That  stained  the  oaken  floor. 

Then  he  knew  that  the  voice  of  his  brother's  blood 

Was  crying  aloud  to  heaven; 
And  he  knew  that  the  present  hour  was  one 

To  the  evil  spirits  given ; 

And  fiendish  shapes  from  the  tapestry  looked. 
And  the  lightning  glared  on  the  band ; 

"  Come,"  said  a  voice,  and  he  felt  on  his  heart 
The  touch  of  an  icy  hand. 

Fearful,  they  said,  was  the  face  of  the  dead. 
Whom  his  vassals  found  next  day ; 

For  a  clay-cold  corse,  in  his  midnight  tower, 
The  last  Chief  of  Restormel  lay. 


Restormel  Castle  was  one  of  the  principal  residences  of  the  Earls  of  Cornwall.    The  above  verses  are 
founded  on  a  traditionary  story  told  of  its  last  castellan,  or  constable. 


» 


« 


.':3i-; 


27 


THE    WATER    PALACE,    MANDOO. 


He  built  it,  for  he  was  a  king. 

And  wealth  was  at  his  will ; 
He  had  another  mountain  hold 

Upon  a  mighty  hill : 
But  that  was  built  in  times  of  war 

With  high  and  armed  walls, 
With  midnight  watchers  in  its  towers, 

And  warriors  in  its  halls  ; 
But  this  sweet  palace  was  for  peace. 

Built  by  the  water-side. 
When  Zerid  sheathed  the  sword  and  won 

The  Persian  for  his  bride. 


And  beautiful  round  Ispahan 

Spread  gardens  of  the  rose. 
And  'mid  her  guarded  solitude 

The  young  queen  pined  for  those  ; 
The  conqueror  sought  a  lovely  spot, 

And  built  a  lovely  home  ; 
Of  porphyry  was  the  shining  floor, 

Of  crystal  was  the  dome. 
But  lovelier  were  the  cypresses 

That  hung  the  lake  beside  ; 
As  beauties  o'er  their  mirror  bend, 

So  bent  they  o'er  the  tide. 


Those  giant  warriors  of  the  wood, 
Palms  with  their  leafy  crest, 

Like  waving  feathers  caught  each  breeze, 
That  wandered  from  the  west ; 

And  every  breeze,  of  red  rose  leaves 
Brought  down  a  crimson  rain. 


38  THE   WATER   PALACE,    MANDOO. 


And  fields  of  rice  and  scented  grass 
Made  green  each  distant  plain  ; 

And  cool  and  bright  adown  the  stream 
The  water  lilies  swept, 

As  if  within  each  silvery  hold 
The  god  Camdeo  slept. 


She  came,  the  young  and  royal  bride, 

And  if  the  place  was  fair, 
Before  her  eyes  shed  sunshine  round. 

How  fair  when  she  was  there ! 
An  hundred  maidens  and  their  lutes 

Came  with  their  queen  along ; 
The  mornings  passed,  the  evenings  passed. 

With  story  and  with  song  : 
His  sword  the  conqueror  forgot- 

Her  early  home  his  bride — 
Whenever  they  and  summer  sought 

Their  palace  by  the  tide. 


The  early  history  of  Mandoo  is  inrolved  in  much  obscurity:  it  was  first  possessed  by  the  Dhar  Rajahs  ; 
to  one  of  these  the  above  verses  refer. 

Camdeo  is  the  Indian  Cnpid.  He  is  represented  by  the  Hindoo  writers  as  a  beautiful  youth,  sometimes  float- 
ing down  the  Ganges  on  a  lotus ;  or,  at  others,  riding  on  a  loorie  by  moonlight,  attended  by  dancing  nymphs,  the 
foremost  of  whom  carries  his  banner,  which  displays  a  fish  on  a  red  ground.  He  bears  four  arrows,  each  headed 
by  a  different  flower ;  his  bow  is  formed  of  a  sugar-cane,  and  strung  with  bees. — Sir  W.  Jones. 

The  lotus  is  a  species  of  large  lily,  of  which  there  are  many  varieties ;  some  of  a  pure  white,  others 
tinged  with  a  faint,  others  with  a  deep  red.  On  a  clear  wave,  the  rich  crimson  has  a  splendid  effect. — Ariatie 
Amuial  Register. 


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RTdHi'      HON  "i-f      .imiN      l>)lll,l'(JT      CI.'H  li  AN. 


I-iCllUt .  SUV  l|  Cf  LUNDOH.  I8RI. 


29 


LINES     ON     CURRAN'S     PICTURE. 


Oh  !  is  it  not  a  gallant  sight  to  mark 

A  little  vessel  breast  the  stormy  sea, 

With  sails  triumphant  swelling  to  the  wind  ? 

Dashing  the  waters  from  her  side  in  scorn, 

She  cleaves  the  ocean,  and,  with  arrowy  prow. 

Scattering  the  snowy  foam,  a  sparkling  shower. 

And  leaving  a  bright  track  behind,  insign 

Of  victory.     Our  human  pride  delights 

In  such  a  triumph  over  wind  and  wave. 

Because  she  knows  'tis  not  the  plank  and  sail 

But  human  mind  that  holds  the  mastery. 

The  canvass  has  been  spread  by  human  hand. 

And  human  hand  it  is  that  guides  the  helm. 

Methinks  with  nobler  triumph  we  should  mark 

Some  gallant  spirit  through  the  sea  of  life 

Shape  its  successful  course.     Sustained,  impelled 

By  energy  unconquerable  within, 

A  life  like  Curran's  has  enough  to  make 

Humanity  ashamed  and  proud.     'Tis  strange 

To  think  what  toil  is  wasted  upon  some. 

How  ancient  scrolls  unfold  their  precious  store. 

The  learned  folio  yields  its  silver  clasp. 

The  modern  page  marks  out  its  easy  way 

Some  learned  man  to  aid,  assist,  explain. 

And  all  to  prove  some  fool  is  also  dunce. 

Now  watch  the  progress  of  a  nobler  mind  : 

It  has  no  aid,  except  from  obstacles 

To  conquer  which  invigorates  :  learned  wealth 

As  much  debarred  as  golden  ;  every  step 

Made  difficult  by  want  of  help ;  and  books 

Things  more  of  a  desire  than  of  a  hope. 

And  yet  that  boy  will  rise  into  a  man. 

The  honoured  of  his  country,  and  will  leave 

A  name  imperishable  as  the  soul. 


30  LINES    ON    CUKRAN  S    PICTURE. 


And  such  was  Curran ;  'twas  a  glorious  sight 
To  see  him  when  his  soul  was  on  its  spring, 
Gifted  with  all  the  mighty  strength  of  words, 
Wit  from  his  lip,  and  lightning  from  his  eye, 
Flashing  together — scorn  enthroned  on  power — 
I'd  rather  have  such  stirring  life  as  theirs, 
Who  make  their  own  way,  and  delight  to  make. 
Win  wealth  and  honour  by  their  own  bright  mind, 
Whose  destiny  is  in  itself — than  bear 
The  noblest  name  that  ever  belted  Earl 
Left  honoured  to  his  son — 


THE  VALE   OF   LONSDALE, 


LANCASHIKE. 


I  COULD  not  dwell  here,  it  is  all  too  fair. 

Too  sunny,  too  luxuriant ;  those  green  fields. 

With  the  rich  shadows  of  their  old  oak  trees. 

Or  the  more  graceful  sweep  of  the  light  ash ; 

Fields  where  the  skylark  builds  amid  the  grass, 

Trees  where  the  thrush's  nest  is  on  the  boughs  ; 

Those  human  dwellings,  looking  peace  at  least. 

In  gardens,  with  their  growth  of  cultured  flowers ; 

The  quiet  winding  of  that  tideless  stream, 

Whose  very  movement  is  repose,  whose  waves 

Are  rarely  stirred  save  by  the  falling  rain. 

Which  comes  when  sunshine  asks  relief  from  showers ; 

I  could  not  dwell  here,  it  is  far  too  fair. 

For  my  heart  feels  the  contrast  all  too  much. 

Between  the  placid  scene,  and  its  unrest. 


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31 


FOWEY  HARBOUR,  AND  POLRUAN  CASTLE,  &c. 

The  Lad  ye  sat  in  her  lonely  tower, 

Singing  a  mournful  song; 
One  of  those  sad  and  olden  rhymes 

That  aye  to  love  belong. 
The  bride  is  young,  and  her  lord  is  away, 
Therefore  sings  she  that  love-lorn  lay. 

Sudden  she  marks,  through  the  glittering  waves, 

Two  armed  ships  cleave  their  way  ; 
Their  sails  are  white,  in  the  morning  light, 

And  around  breaks  the  dashing  spray. 
She  sees  the  flag  with  its  lilies  expand, 
And  a  band  of  warriors  leap  to  land. 

It  had  been  sight,  for  a  gallant  knight, 

To  mark  that  ladye  call, 
'Mid  weeping  maidens,  and  wardens  old, 

On  her  vassals  to  man  the  wall ; 
Albeit  it  roused  more  love  than  fear, 
To  see,  that  white  hand  grasp  the  spear. 

There  are  no  knights  like  our  English  knights, 

Yet  the  boldest  of  his  name. 
Never  from  castle  repulsed  the  foe 

More  bravely  than  that  fair  dame : 
They  left  their  chief,  and  their  banner  behind, 
When  the  Frenchmen  spread  their  sails  to  the  wind. 

"  Is  a  masque  tow'rd  ?"  said  the  castle's  lord. 

When  he  came  home  next  day, 
Beside  him  stood  a  captive  knight, 

And  a  banner  before  him  lay  : 
His  ladye's  cheek  wore  its  deepest  red. 
When  she  told  him  how  she  had  been  lord  instead. 

Leiand,  when  speaking  of  the  "  Frenchmen"  having  "  diverse  times  assailed  the  town"  of  Fowey, "  and  last 
most  notably,  about  Henry  the  Sixth's  time,"  informs  us,  that  "  the  veife  of  Thomas  Treury,  the  2d,  with  her  men, 
repelled  the  French  out  of  her  house  in  her  husband's  absence ;  whereupon  Thomas  Treury  builded  a  righte 
faire  and  stronge  embateled  towr  in  his  house, — and  vnfo  this  day  it  is  the  glorie  of  the  town  building  in 
Faweye."  The  tower  fell  to  the  ground  about  sixty  years  ago,  and  two  busts  of  the  heroine  who  so  gallantly 
repulsed  the  enemy,  were  found  in  the  ruing  :  they  are  still  preserved. 


32 


SKELETON    GKOUF    IN   THE    RAMESWUR,    CAVES    OF    ELLORA. 


SUPPOSED  TO  HEPRESENT  THE  NUPTIALS  OF  SIVA  AND  PAllVATI. 


He  comes  from  Kilas,  earth  and  sky, 
Bright  before  the  deity ; 
The  sun  shines,  as  he  shone  when  first 
His  glory  over  ocean  burst. 
The  vales  put  forth  a  thousand  flowers, 
Mingling  the  spring  and  summer  hours; 
The  Suras*  fill  with  songs  the  air. 
The  Genii  and  their  lutes  are  there; 
By  gladness  stirred,  the  mighty  sea 
Flings  up  its  waves  rejoicingly; 
And  Music  wanders  o'er  its  tide, 
For  Siva  comes  to  meet  his  bride. 


The  above  lines  are  a  paraphrase  of  a  translation  from  the  Siva-Pooraun.  It  goes  on  to  mention,  besides 
the  signs  of  rejoicing  I  have  enumerated,  that  "  The  dwellers  upon  earth  stocked  the  casket  of  their  ideas  with 
the  jewels  of  delight ;"  also,  that  "  the  eyes  of  the  devotees  flamed  like  torches,"  and  that  "  Siva  set  off  like  a 
garden  in  full  blow."  Among  the  guests  who  attended  his  wedding  were  "  Brahma,  who  came  on  his  goose" — 
"  the  Kerokee  and  other  serpents  all  drest  in  habits  of  ceremony."  Query,  What  habits  of  ceremony  did  the 
serpents  wear?  Vide  Maurice.  Captain  Sykes  mentions,  that  one  of  the  compartments  represent  Siva  and 
Parvati  playing  at  dice,  her  attitude  expressing  "  unsuccess  or  denial."  May  not  this  allude  to  their  celebrated 
quarrel,  so  often  mentioned  by  Hindoo  writers.  The  tale  is  as  follows.  Siva  and  Parvati  parted,  owing  to  a 
quarrel  at  dice.  They  severally  performed  rigid  acts  of  devotion  ;  but  the  fires  they  kindled  blazed  so  vehemently 
as  to  threaten  a  general  conflagration.  The  other  deities  in  great  alarm  supplicated  him  to  recall  his  consort, 
but  the  angry  god  answered,  that  she  must  come  of  her  own  free  choice.  The  river  goddess  prevailed  on  Parvati 
to  return,  on  condition  that  his  love  for  her  was  restored.  Camdeo,  the  Indian  Cupid,  then  wounded  Siva  with 
one  of  his  arrows,  and,  for  his  pains,  was  reduced  to  ashes  by  a  flash  from  Siva's  eye.  The  shaft,  however,  had 
lost  none  of  its  honied  craft.  Parvati,  as  the  daugliter  of  a  mountaineer,  appeared  before  her  i.mmediately 
enamoured  husband ;  her  conquest  once  secured,  she  assumed  her  natural  form.  Siva,  in  the  joy  of  recon- 
ciliation, decreed,  that  Camdeo  should  be  known  again  as  the  son  of  Crishna.  Asiatic  Researches. 

*  Good  spirits. 


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33 


FURNESS    ABBEY, 

IX    THE    VALE    OF    NIGHTSHADE,    LANCASHIRE. 


I  WISH  for  the  days  of  the  olden  time. 

When  the  hours  were  told  by  the  abbey  chime, 
When  the  glorious  stars  looked  down  through  the  midnight  dim, 
Like  approving  saints  on  the  choir's  sweet  hymn : 

I  think  of  the  days  we  are  living  now. 

And  I  sigh  for  those  of  the  veil  and  the  vow. 


I  would  be  content  alone  to  dwell 

Where  the  ivy  shut  out  the  sun  from  my  cell, 
With  the  death's-head  at  my  side,  and  the  missal  on  my  knee. 
Praying  to  that  heaven  which  was  opening  to  me  : 

Fevered  and  vain  are  the  days  I  lead  now, 

And  I  sigh  for  those  of  the  veil  and  the  vow. 


Silken  broidery  no  more  would  I  wear. 

Nor  golden  combs  in  my  golden  hair ; 
I  wore  them  but  for  one,  and  in  vain  they  were  worn  ; 
My  robe  should  be  of  serge,  my  crown  of  the  thorn  : 

Tis  a  cold  false  world  we  dwell  in  now. 

And  I  sigh  for  the  days  of  the  veil  and  the  vow. 


I  would  that  the  cloister's  quiet  were  mine ; 

In  the  silent  depths  of  some  holy  shrine. 
I  would  tell  my  blessed  beads,  and  would  weep  away 
From  my  inmost  soul  every  stain  of  clay: 

My  heart's  young  hopes  they  have  left  me  now, 

And  I  sigh  for  the  days  of  the  veil  and  the  vow. 


34 


BENARES. 


City  of  idol  temples,  and  of  shrines, 

Where  folly  kneels  to  falsehood — how  the  pride 

Of  our  humanity  is  here  rebuked  ! 

Man,  that  aspires  to  rule  the  very  wind, 

And  make  the  sea  confess  his  majesty  ; 

Whose  intellect  can  fill  a  little  scroll 

With  words  that  are  immortal ;  who  can  build 

Cities,  the  mighty  and  the  beautiful : 

Yet  man,  this  glorious  creature,  can  debase 

His  spirit  down,  to  worship  wood  and  stone. 

And  hold  the  very  beasts  which  bear  his  yoke, 

And  tremble  at  his  eye,  for  sacred  things. 

With  what  unutterable  humility 

We  should  bow  down,  thou  blessed  Cross,  to  thee! 

Seeing  our  vanity  and  foolishness, 

When,  to  our  own  devices  left,  we  frame 

A  shameful  creed  of  craft  and  cruelty. 


Benares  may  be  called  the  Rome  of  Hindostan,  being  the  sacred  city,  the  centre  of  the  Hindoo  religion. 
Bishop  Heber  states,  that  "  no  Europeans  live  in  the  town,  nor  are  any  of  the  streets  wide  enough  to  admit 
a  wheel  carriage."  The  streets  are  crowded  with  "  the  sacred  bulls  devoted  to  Seeva,  tame  and  familiar  as 
mastiffs,  walking  lazily  up  and  down,  and  lying  across  them.  Monkeys  sacred  to  Hunooman,  the  divine 
ape  who  conquered  Ceylon,  are  in  some  parts  of  the  town  equally  numerous,  clinging  to  all  the  roofs,  and 
putting  their  heads  or  hands  into  every  fruiterer's  or  confectioner's  shop,  and  snatching  the  food  from  the 
children  at  their  meals.  Fakirs'  houses  occur  at  every  turn,  adorned  with  idols,  and  sending  out  an  unceasing 
tinkling  of  vinas,  bugals,  and  other  discordant  instruments  :  while  religious  mendicants,  of  every  Hindoo  sect, 
offering  every  conceivable  deformity,  which  chalk,  disease,  matted  locks,  distorted  limbs,  and  disgusting 
attitudes  of  penance,  can  shew,  literally  line  the  principal  streets."  "The  houses  are  painted  of  a  deep  red, 
and  covered  with  paintings,  in  gaudy  colours,  of  flower- pots,  men,  women,  bulls,  elephants,  gods  and  goddesses, 
in  all  their  many-headed,  many-handed,  many-weaponed  varieties."  "  The  number  of  temples  is  very  great, 
mostly  small,  and  stand  like  shrines  in  the  angles  of  the  streets.  Many  of  them  are  entirely  covered  over  with 
beautiful  and  elaborate  carvings  of  flowers,  animals,  and  palm  branches,  equalling  in  minuteness  and  richness 
the  best  specimens  I  have  seen  of  Gothic  or  Grecian  architecture."  Tavernier  mentions  a  belief  of  the 
Brahmins,  whence  the  classic  allegory  of  the  golden,  silver,  brazen,  and  iron  ages  originated.  "  This  holy 
city,"  say  they,  "  was  originally  built  of  gold,  but,  for  the  sins  of  mankind,  it  was  successively  degraded  to  stone, 
brick,  and  clay." 


< 


PaintAd    bjr  Hrory  Voyer^ 


t^ifr&ved  hi    ii.  kVc 


THiES      AFK3ICAN. 


nSHKH.SON  «  C*  LONDON.  1831, 


35 


THE    AFRICAN. 


It  was  a  king  in  Africa, 

He  had  an  only  son  ; 
And  none  of  Europe's  crowned  kings 

Could  have  a  dearer  one. 

With  good  cane  arrows  five  feet  long, 

And  with  a  shining  bow. 
When  but  a  boy,  to  the  palm  woods 

Would  that  young  hunter  go. 

And  home  he  brought  white  ivory, 

And  many  a  spotted  hide  ; 
When  leopards  fierce  and  beautiful 

Beneath  his  arrows  died. 

Around  his  arms,  around  his  brow, 

A  shining  bar  was  rolled  ; 
It  was  to  mark  his  royal  blood, 

He  wore  that  bar  of  gold. 

And  often  at  his  father's  feet. 

The  evening  he  would  pass ; 
When,  weary  of  the  hunt,  he  lay 

Upon  the  scented  grass. 
Alas !  it  was  an  evil  day. 

When  such  a  thing  could  be ; 
When  strangers,  pale  and  terrible, 

Came  o'er  the  distant  sea. 

They  found  the  young  prince  mid  the  woods. 
The  palm  woods  deep  and  dark  : 

That  day  his  Hon  hunt  was  done. 
They  bore  him  to  their  bark. 

They  bound  him  in  a  narrow  hold. 

With  others  of  his  kind  ; 
For  weeks  did  that  accursed  ship 

Sail  on  before  the  wind. 

Now  shame  upon  the  cruel  wind. 

And  on  the  cruel  sea. 
That  did  not  with  some  mighty  storm. 

Set  those  poor  captives  free  : 


36  THE  AFRICAN. 


Or,  shame  to  those  weak  thoughts,  so  fain 

To  have  their  wilful  way : 
God  knoweth  what  is  best  for  all — 

The  winds  and  seas  obey. 

At  length  a  lovely  island  rose 

From  out  the  ocean  wave, 
They  took  him  to  the  market-place. 

And  sold  him  for  a  slave. 

Some  built  them  homes,  and  in  the  shade 
Of  flowered  and  fragrant  trees. 

They  half  forgot  the  palm-hid  huts 
They  left  far  o'er  the  seas. 

But  he  was  born  of  nobler  blood. 

And  was  of  nobler  kind  ; 
And  even  unto  death,  his  heart 

For  its  own  kindred  pined. 

There  came  to  him  a  seraph  child 

With  eyes  of  gentlest  blue  : 
If  there  are  angels  in  high  heaven. 

Earth  has  its  angels  too. 

She  cheered  him  with  her  holy  words, 
She  soothed  him  with  her  tears  ; 

And  pityingly  she  spoke  with  him 
Of  home  and  early  years. 

And  when  his  heart  was  all  subdued 

By  kindness  into  love, 
She  taught  him  from  this  weary  earth 

To  look  in  faith  above. 

She  told  him  how  the  Saviour  died 

For  man  upon  the  tree ; 
"  He  suffered,"  said  the  holy  child, 

"  For  you  as  well  as  me." 

Sorrow  and  death  have  need  of  faith — 

The  African  believed ; 
As  rains  fall  fertile  on  the  earth. 

Those  words  his  soul  received. 

He  died  in  hope,  as  only  those 

Who  die  in  Christ  depart — 
One  blessed  name  within  his  lips. 

One  hope  within  his  heart. 


37 


CURRAGHMORE, 

A  Seat  of  the  Marquis  of  Waterford. — The  name  signifies  "  the  great  plain,"  and  the 
surrounding  country  is  of  singular  beauty  and  fertility. 

Summer,  shining  summer, 
Art  thou  bringing  now 
Colours  to  the  red  rose. 
Green  leaves  to  the  bough. 
Music  to  the  singing  birds. 
And  honey  to  the  bee  ; 
Summer,  shining  summer. 
Oh,  welcome  unto  thee. 

Now  linger  in  our  valley, 
Oh,  why  should  thou  go  forth. 
To  thaw  the  snow  and  icicles 
Of  the  eternal  North  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  find  a  valley 
More  lovely  for  your  home  ? 
Ah !  even  now  the  shadows 
Are  lengthening  as  they  come. 

Well,  Autumn,  thou  art  welcome. 
With  sheaves  of  ripened  corn. 
The  hunter's  moon  is  shining. 
The  hills  ring  with  his  horn. 
The  grapes  are  dyed  with  purple, 
The  leaves  are  tinged  with  red. 
And  the  green  and  golden  plumage 
Of  the  pheasant's  wing  is  spread. 

What  ?  snow  upon  the  mountains  ! 
Heap  pine  boughs  on  the  hearth  ; 
Broach  ye  the  crimson  Malvoisie, 
Let  the  old  hall  ring  with  mirth. 
Fill  the  lattices  with  holly. 
Let  the  lamps  and  torches  blaze. 
And  let  the  ancient  harper 
Sing  songs  of  other  days. 


33  CUKRAOHMORE. 

Alas,  thou  gladsomeWinter, 
Thy  festival  is  done, 
Thy  frost-work  world  of  gossamer 
^        Is  melting  in  the  sun. 

Forth  come  the  early  violets, 
Such  pale  blue  in  their  eyes. 
As  if  they  caught  their  colour 
From  gazing  on  the  skies. 

And  a  green  and  tender  verdure 

Is  on  the  hawthorn  tree, 

And  a  break  of  crimson  promise 

Shews  what  the  rose  will  be. 

The  primrose  clothes  the  meadow, 

The  birds  are  on  the  wing, 

And  a  thousand  flowers  are  waking 

Beneath  the  feet  of  Spring. 

Let  the  year  pursue  its  changes, 
Let  the  seasons  fade  and  fall, 
That  valley  has  a  welcome 
And  a  beauty  for  them  all. 


His  Highness 

George -Frederick  -Alexander  -Charles  -  Ernest  -  Augustus, 

PRINCE    OF    CUMBERLAND, 

Bom  2Sth  May,  1815. 

I  will  quote  Wordsworth's  lines,  and  say,  that  this  Picture  of  our  Young  Prince — 

"  The  beauty  wears  of  promise — that  which  sets 
(To  take  an  image  which  was  felt,  no  doubt. 
Among  the  bowers  of  paradise  itself,) 
The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full  blown" — 

and  only  venture  to  add  a  wish,  that  His  Highness's  future  years  may  surpass  even  their 
present  promise  ;  of  which  there  is  a  delightful  account  in  Part  30  of  the  "  National  Portrait 
Gallery." 


Pvbu4  }iy  0  1..  SvoDdri 


HIS    HIOHSESS    PRINCE   OEOROE-FBEDEKIfK-ALEXANDER- 
CHAHLES-EHXEST-ATJGirSTt'S   OF  crMBERLAND. 


iir.iif,'  i(i:i  ^  r-  uwuoii   vh>\ 


39 


THE    CARCLAZE    TIN-MINE,    CORNWALL. 

Those  stately  galleys  cut  the  seas, 
Their  wings  the  mighty  oars  ; 
And  the  sun  set  o'er  their  purple  sails, 
When  touched  those  ships  our  shores. 

They  are  from  far  Phoenicia, 
Whose  princely  merchants  sweep, 
Like  conquerors  of  the  winds  and  waves, 
Over  the  subject  deep. 

They  have  been  east  and  west  to  seek 

The  wealth  of  the  wide  world  ;  , 

Mid  Indian  isles  of  gems  and  spice. 

Those  sails  have  been  unfurled. 

In  Africa  for  ivory, 
For  the  red  gold  in  Spain ; 
Ours  is  a  wild  and  barren  isle, 
Why  do  they  cross  the  main  ? 

They  come  to  find  the  precious  ores. 
That  British  mountains  yield  ; 
To  point  to  British  enterprise. 
Its  future  glorious  field. 

A  savage  race,  yet  from  their  trade 
Rose  England's  commerce — now. 
What  land  but  knows  her  red-cross  flag  ? 
What  sea  but  knows  her  prow  ? 

Riches,  and  intellect,  and  peace, 
Have  marked  the  favoured  strand : 
God  keep  thee  in  prosperity. 
My  own  sea-girdled  land  ! 

The  produce  of  the  Tin  and  Copper  Mines  early  attracted  the  Phoenicians  to  our  coast.  Tin  was  then  one 
of  the  precions  metals,  and  used  for  personal  adornment;  and  the  barter  must  have  been  as  profitable,  as 
civilized  people  always  mside  their  dealings  with  savages.  Knowledge  usually  turns  ignorance  to  profit.  The 
Carclaze  Mine  is  reported  to  have  been  worked  above  four  handred  yean. 


40 


EL  WtriSH. 


El  WniSB  is  a  small  harbour  on  the  Arabian  coast  of  the  Red  Sea.  The  intricacies  of  a  great  and  almost 
unbroken  extent  of  coral  reefs,  renders  the  navigation  rather  difficult,  and  extremely  tedious.  The  boatmen 
often  beguile  the  night  by  singing.  The  imagery  of  the  following  song  is  taken  from  some  Persian  translations 
kindly  placed  in  my  hands  by  Sir  Gore  Ouseley  :  of  course,  it  is  a  very  free  paraphrase. 


Leila,  the  flowers  are  withered  now. 
The  flowers  I  scattered  at  thy  side 

Wliat  time  Zoharah's*  silver  star 
Was  mirror'd  in  the  fountain's  tide  ; 

Tlie  fountain  played,  and  flung  its  drops 
Like  pearls  amid  thy  raven  hair ; 

I  had  not  seen  the  mirror'd  star. 
But  thou  too  wert  reflected  there. 

Thyself  and  thy  sweet  phantom  self 
That  parting  hour  were  both  my  own. 

My  heart  seemed  like  the  fountain,  made 
To  image  love  and  thee  alone. 

When  thou  had  past,  that  faithless  wave 
No  likeness  of  thy  grace  retained. 

But  though  my  Leila's  self  be  gone, 
Yet  Leila's  memory  has  remained. 

Thou  dost  consume  thy  dwelling-place — 
Take  from  thy  wreath  of  flowers  a  sign. 

The  tulip  hides  its  withered  core, 
And  such  a  burning  heart  is  mine. 

I  call  thine  image  to  my  sleep, 
I  wake  and  watch  the  waves  again, 

I  think  thy  words,  I  dream  thy  smiles. 
Ah  !  Arab  maid,  I  dream  in  vain. 


•  The  Eastern  name  for  the  planet  Venus. 


^HPHmi 


41 


THE    HOUSE    IN  WHICH    ROSCOE  WAS    BORN. 


A  LOWLY  roof,  an  English  farm-house  roof — 

What  is  the  train  of  thought  that  it  should  wake  ? 

Why  cheerful  evenings,  when  the  winter  cold 

Grows  glad  beside  the  hearth  ;  or  summer  days. 

When  round  the  shady  porch  the  woodbine  clings ; 

Some  aged  man  beneath,  to  hear  whose  words 

The  children  leave  off  play  ;  for  he  can  tell 

Of  the  wild  sea,  a  sailor  in  his  youth. 

Yet  here  the  mind's  eye  pictures  other  scenes — 

A  fair  Italian  city,  in  a  vale, 

The  sanctuary  of  summer,  where  the  air 

Grows  sweet  in  passing  over  myrtle  groves. 

Glides  the  blue  Amo,  in  whose  tide  are  glassed 

Armed  palaces,  with  marble  battlements. 

Forth  ride  a  band  of  princely  chivalry, 

And  at  their  head  a  gallant  chieftain — he, 

Lorenzo  the  magnificent. 

Within  this  house  was  thy  historian  born, 

Florence,  thou  pictured  city;  and  his  name 

Calls  up  thy  rich  romance  of  history  ; 

And  this  calm  English  dwelling  fills  the  mind 

With  memories  of  Medici — 


It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  statp,  tlint  Mr.  Roscoe's  principal  work  was  the  Life  of  Lorenzo  di  Slediris 


43 


THE  JUMMA  MUSJID.— THE  PRINCIPAL  MOSQUE  AT  AGRA. 


Yon  mosque  alone  remains  to  tell. 
How  glorious  once  did  Agra  rise, 

When  gilded  roof  and  pinnacle 
Met  morning  half-way  in  the  skies. 

Two  mighty  empires  load  the  plain, 

With  palace,  mosque,  and  tomb,  and  tower: 

Out  on  the  works  man  rears  in  vain ! 
Out  on  the  vanity  of  power ! 

A  conqueror  poured  forth  wealth  and  blood,' 
And  dome  and  temple  rose  sublime ; — 

Now,  what  remains  where  Agra  stood, 
But  dust  and  ruins,  Death  and  Time ! 


•  Captain  Elliot  says,  "  that  a  single  century,  or  even  a  shorter  space  of  time,  is  sufficient  to  reduce  the 
streets  and  bazaars  of  an  Indian  city  to  a  level  with  the  earth  from  whence  they  rose,  and  to  become  almost  as 
if  they  had  never  been ;  while  the  larger  mosques  and  tombs  remain  with  little  deterioration,  and  stand  as 
melancholy  monuments  of  the  earlier  splendour  and  prosperity  of  the  Eastern  capitals."  "  The  city  of  Agra  was 
greatly  embellished  by  the  Emperor  Akbar,  and  it  certainly  contains  some  of  the  most  beautiful  remains  of 
architecture  that  are  to  be  found  in  India,  where  the  face  of  a  vast  country  is  covered  with  the  ruins  of  two  great 
empires."    "  Some  of  the  tombs  have  been  converted  into  dwelling-houses  by  the  English  inhabitants." 

It  was  remarked  by  Bishop  Heber,  that "  Vanity  of  vanities  was  surely  never  written  in  more  legible  charac- 
ters than  on  the  dilapidated  arcades  of  Delhi."     He  might  have  said  the  same  of  Agra. 


—  <i 


4 


'=3 


S 
^ 


43 


THE     GIANT'S     CAUSEWAY. 


The  magnificent  basaltic  formation  on  the  northern  coast  of  Ireland,  called  the  "  Giants'  Causeway,"  presents 
so  artificial  an  appearance,  that  some  writers  hare  asserted  that  it  is  not  a  natural  production,  and  it  is 
traditionally  said  to  have  been  the  work  of  those  mighty  men  of  old,  after  whom  it  is  named.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  in  his  discourses,  observes,  that  "  Travellers  into  the  East  tell  us,  that  when  the  ignorant  inhabitants 
of  these  countries  are  interrogated  concerning  the  ruins  of  stately  edifices  yet  remaining  among  them,  the  melan- 
choly monuments  of  their  former  grandeur  and  long-lost  science,  they  always  answer,  that  they  were  built  by 
magicians.  The  untaught  miud  finds  a  vast  gulf  between  its  own  powers  and  those  works  of  complicated  art 
which  it  is  utterly  unable  to  fathom,  and  it  supposes  that  such  a  void  can  only  be  passed  by  supernatural 
means.' 


They  met  beside  the  stormy  sea,  those  giant  kings  of  old, 
And  on  each  awful  brow  was  set,  a  crown  of  burning  gold. 
No  ray  the  yet  unrisen  stars,  or  the  wan  moonbeams,  gave, 
But  far  and  bright,  the  meteor  light  shone  over  cloud  and  wave. 

"  I  have  been  over  earth  to-day,"  exclaimed  one  mighty  king, 
"  The  toil  of  half  the  human  race,  it  is  a  foolish  thing ; 
For  I  have  seen  on  Egypt's  land,  an  abject  million  slave,   ' 
To  build  a  lolly  pyramid  above  their  monarch's  grave. 

"  Now  let  us  put  their  works  to  scorn,  and  in  a  single  night 

Rear  what  would  take  them  centuries,  and  nations'  banded  might," 

Then  up  arose  each  giant  king,  and  took  a  mighty  stone. 

They  laid  the  quay;  they  piled  the  rocks — ere  mom  the  work  was  done. 

Vain  fable  this !  yet  not  so  vain  as  it  may  seem  to  be, 
Methinks  that  now  too  much  we  live  to  cold  reality ; 
The  selfish  and  the  trading  world  clips  man  so  closely  round. 
No  bold  or  fair  imaginings  within  our  hearts  are  found. 

So   vortex-like  doth  wealth  now  draw,  all  other  feelings  in. 
Too  much  we  calculate,  and  wealth,  becomes  almost  a  sin ; 
We  look  upon  the  lovely  earth,  and  think  what  it  may  yield  ; 
We  only  ask  for  crops,  not  flowers,  from  every  summer  field. 

The  mind  grows  coarse,  the  soul  confined,  while  thus  from  day  to  day 

We  let  the  merely  common-place  eat  phantasie  away  : 

Aye,  better  to  believe,  I  trow,  the  legends  framed  of  old — 

Aught — anything  to  snatch  one  thought,  from  selfishness  and  gold. 


44 


THE  CITY   OF   DELHI. 

Thou  glorious  city  of  the  East,  of  old  enchanted  times. 
When  the  fierce  Genii  swayed  all  Oriental  climes, 
I  do  not  ask  from  history  a  record  of  thy  fame, 
A  fairy  page  has  stamped  for  me  thy  consecrated  name. 

I  read  it  when  the  crimson  sky  came  reddening  thro'  the  trees. 

The  twilight  is  the  only  time  to  read  such  tales  as  these ; 

Like  mosque,  and  minaret,  and  tower,  the  clouds  were  heaped  on  high, 

I  almost  deemed  fair  Delhi  rose,  a  city  in  the  sky. 

What  sympathy  I  then  bestowed  upon  her  youthful  king  ! 
I  fear  I  now  should  be  less  moved  by  actual  suffering ; 
All  sorrow  has  its  selfishness ;  tears  harden  as  they  flow. 
And  in  our  own  we  half  forget  to  share  in  others'  wo. 

I  can  recall  how  well  I  seemed  to  know  the  princely  tent, 
Where  painted  silk,  and  painted  plume,  their  gorgeous  colours  blent. 
The  conquests  blazoned  on  the  walls,  the  roof  of  carved  stone. 
And  the  rich  light,  that  at  midnight,  over  the  dark  woods  shone. 

The  lovely  princess,  she  who  slept  in  that  black  marble  tomb. 
Her  only  pall,  her  raven  hair,  that  swept  in  midnight  gloom ; 
The  depths  of  that  enchanted  sleep,  had  seemed  the  sleep  of  death 
Save  that  her  cheek  retained  its  rose,  her  lip  its  rose-like  breath. 

Gone  !  gone  !  I  think  of  them  no  more,  unless  when  they  are  brought 
As  by  this  pictured  city  here,  in  some  recalling  thought ; 
Far  other  dreams  are  with  me  now,  and  yet,  amid  their  pain, 
I  wish  I  were  content  to  dream  of  fairy  tales  again. 

Perhaps  Sir  Charles  Morell,  the  real  author  of  "  The  Tales  of  the  Genii,"  may  be  but  an  Oriental  Ossian  ;  I 
only  know,  when  reading  them  I  was  truly"  under  the  wand  of  the  enchanter."  The  story  of  the  Sultan  Misnar 
and  the  Enchanters  is  the  one  to  which  the  above  verses  allude.  The  youthful  monarch  had  enough  to  do ;  he 
had  to  rescue  his  throne  from  the  usurpation  of  his  brother,  aided  by  the  evil  genii,  and  his  mistress  from  an 
enchanted  sleep,  in  a  tomb  of  black  marble.  If  an  author  could  choose  his  destiny,  he  would  only  implore 
fortune  to  grant  him  youthful  readers.  The  vivid  feeling  and  the  rich  imagination  of  the  young,  lend  their  own 
freshness  to  the  page ;  and  then  we  look  back  with  such  delight  to  half-forgotten  volumes  read  beneath  the  old 
beech-tree,  or  in  the  oaken  window-seat.  What  an  Arabian  poet  says  of  those  he  laved  in  early  days,  I  nay, 
too,  of  all  childhood's  books,  hopes,  and  feelings.  The  Arabian  line  runs  thus — 
"  We  never  meet  with  friends  like  the  friends  of  our 
Youth — when  we  have  lost  them." 


^ 
^ 

M 
g 


45 


BLARNEY      CASTLE. 
"  A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 


Although  Mr.  Crofton  Croker  has  devoted  no  less  than  eighteen  quarto  pages  of  research  to 
the  history  of  Blarney  Castle,  and  has  minutely  told  us  how  its  Lord  (Clancarty)  lost  his  pro- 
perty, how  his  ring  was  fished  up,  and  where  his  plate  may  be  found, — he  has  nevertheless  left 
the  precise  meaning  of  the  word  Blarney  unexplained. — Those  who  are  curious  on  the  subject 
of  its  extended  use,  may  consult  Salt's  Abyssinia.  I  shall  only  attempt,  -by  illustration,  to 
shew  the  accordance  of  what  in  England  has  long  been  termed  "  a  French  compliment,"  with 
our  notion  of  Irish  blarney :  as  it  is  impossible  better  to  illustrate  Blarney  Castle,  than  by 
compositions  which  embody  its  very  spirit. 

Voltaire's  Impromptu  to  a  Lady,  who  wished  him  yet  another  eighty  years  of  life  : 

Lady,  it  is  a  selfish  boon. 

The  life  your  prayer  would  give  ; 
We're  fain  to  keep  what  is  our  own. 

We  wish  our  slaves  to  live. 

Marmontel  8  Impromptu  to  Madame  de  Stael,  on  his  giving  her  a  pen  which  she  had  dropt : 

Love  dropt  this  feather  at  your  feet ; 

What  time,  his  wanderings  o'er — 
He  trusted  you  to  clip  his  wings, 

And  wished  to  rove  no  more. 

Marie  Antoinette,  finding  a  lady  of  her  court  writing  to  M.  le  President  Hainault,  added  a 
few  lines  with  her  own  hand,  which  called  forth  the  following : 

Who  traced  these  words,  where  loveliness 
Has  stamped  its  own  divine  impress  ? — 

Dare  I  imagine  who  ? 
It  were  ungrateful  not  to  guess ; 

Too  daring,  if  I  do. 


46  BLARNEY  CASTLE. 

Shakspeare  showed  his  usual  judgment  in  putting  the  well-known  exclamation,  "  What's  in 
a  name,"  into  the  mouth  of  a  young  lady  in  love,  who  may  very  well  be  supposed  not  to  know  what 
she  was  talking  about:  and  if  a  castle  is  to  have  such  a  name,  it  must  be  content  to  abide  by  its 
associations.  The  tea-table  was  the  last  resource  of  these  little  attentions ;  but  the  "  bubbling 
urn's"  dismissal  has  carried  with  it  that  once-common  flattery  of  "  Pray,  Miss,  look  in  the 
cup,  and  then  it  won't  want  sugar."  Alas !  our  grandmothers  were  better  oif  than  we  are. 
When  an  art  reaches  its  perfection,  it  must  decline;  and  certainly  the  French  carried  "  the 
delicate  science"  of  blarney  to  its  perfection. 

To  quote  two  instances:  Madame  Helvetius  reproached  Fontenelle,  that  he  passed  her  with- 
out even  looking  at  her,  by  saying,  "  Comment,  Monsieur,  peux  tu  me  passer  sans  me  regarder?" 
"  Si  je  vous  avals  regarde,  je  n'aurois  pu  passer,"  was  the  gallant  reply. 

Madame  de  Stael  asked  Talleyrand,  (while  they  were  engaged  in  a  game  then  much  in 
vogue,  which  supposed  that  out  of  two  in  a  sinking  boat  you  were  to  save  one,)  which  he 
would  save,  Madame  de  R — ,  or  her.  There  was  not  a  little  jealousy  between  the  ladies; 
still  Talleyrand  named  Madame  de  R — ;  but  instantly  smoothed  matters  by  saying  to 
Madame  de  Stael,  "  Ah,  Madame,  I'assistance  est  ce  qu'on  n'osoit  vous  offrir."  Such  was  the 
ingenious  extrication  of  the  diplomatist. 

A  rich  strain  of  flattery  pervaded  our  elder  poets.  A  lover  bids  his  lady  unveil  in  the 
following  imagery : 

"  As  some  fair  tulip,  by  a  storm  opprest. 
Shrinks  up,  and  folds  its  silken  arms  to  rest. 
Hears  from  within  the  wind  sing  round  its  head ; 
So,  shrouded  up,  your  beauty  disappears. 
Unveil,  my  love,  and  lay  aside  your  fears." 

Again,  a  young  sea  captain  entreats  his  fair  incognita  to  tell  her  name,  that  he 

"  may  call  upon  it  in  a  storm, 
And  save  some  ship  from  perishing ;" 

Or,  Carew's  "  painted  words"  to  his  mistress,  beginning — 

"  Ask  me  no  more  where  June  bestows, 
When  June  is  past  the  fading; 
For  in  your  beauties'  orient  deep 
•t  Those  flowers  as  in  their  causes  sleep." 

Or,  take  the  immortal  wreath  the  dramatist  offered  his  mistress : 
"  I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath ; 
Not  so  much  honouring  thee. 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 
It  could  not  withered  be. 


BLARNEY    CASTLE.  47 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent  it  back  to  me, 
Since  when,  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear. 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee." 

One  more  of  Carew's,  on  the  sight  of  a  gentlewoman's  face  in  the  water  : 
"  Stand  still,  you  floods ;  do  not  efface 
The  image  which  you  bear, 
So  votaries  from  every  place 
Shall  altars  to  you  rear." 

Enough  of  illustrations  of  "  the  subtle  art,"  which  has  given  the  Castle  its  name  :  still  I  must 
add  a  charade  of  Fox's,  addressed  to  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire — 

"  Myself  is  my  first,  in  a  very  short  word, 
And  I  am  the  second,  and  you  are  my  third ;" 
(the  word  is  idol.)     I  will  conclude  with  the  latest  specimen  of  the  kind  I  have  seen.     It  is 
extracted  from  the  album  of  a  young  lady  : 

"  Miss,  in  your  nose  an  epigram's  discerned — 
Tis  pretty,  short,  and  elegantly  turned." 


THE     VALLEY     OF     ROCKS, 

NEAR  LINTON, DEVONSHIRE. 


This  valley  is  bounded  by  hnge  naked  rocks,  piled  one  upon  the  other,  and  resembling  extensive  ruins :  vast 
fragments  overspread  the  ground,  and  exhibit  on  every  side  awful  vestiges  of  convulsion  and  desolation. 


Summer,  thou  hast  lost  thy  power ; 
Nor  thy  sunshine,  nor  thy  shower. 
Can,  from  out  the  stubborn  earth. 
Call  the  beautiful  to  birth  ! 
Never  springs  the  green  grass  here, 

Filled  with  insects,  and  with  flowers. 
Musical  and  fragrant  life. 

Making  glad  the  passing  hours  ; 


48  THE    VALLEY    OF    ROCKS. 

Groweth  not  one  ancient  tree 
Here  ;  the  eye  can  only  see 
Broken  mass  of  cold  giay  stone  ; 
Never  yet  was  place  so  lone  ! 
Yet  the  heart  hath  many  a  mood 
That  would  seek  such  solitude, 
When  the  summer  earth  and  sky 
Mock  those  who  but  pine  to  die. 
Wherefore  should  the  flowers  be  bright, 
When  they  yield  us  no  delight  ? 
What  avails  the  gladsome  spring  ! 
Misery  is  a  selfish  thing ; 
And  the  wretched  one  would  fain 
That  all  nature  shared  his  pain. 
Then,  the  piled  and  riven  rock, 

Of  earth's  agony  the  sign, 
And  the  lone  and  barren  place. 

Seem  like  sorrow's  fitting  shrine. 
Gloomy  vale!  if  thou  couldst  be 
Haunt  for  human  misery, 
Half  our  life  were  spent  with  thee. 


THE    END. 


FISUER,  90N,  AND  JACKSON,  PRINTERS. 


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