drooped as if oppressed by a sorrow which, as he himself said, foreboded death. tell you when we go home;-it's enough to say | failed him, his limbs became feeble, and his heart that I'm warned, and it's best to be prepared." "William," said she, anxious to cheer and encourage him," don't be alarmed, you know your spirits were always inclined to be low," for so she termed the placid melancholy which during life ran through his temperament. 66 66 "Yes, but since our marriage, Jane, they were never full of sorrow till now; my heart is low, and there is a fear over me that I never had before." Well, dear," said the faithful creature, the day is dark enough to put any one into bad spirits. About twelve o'clock the sun will shine out, and you'll get brighter and pleasanter." He shook his head, and touched his clarionet with his open hand in evident abstraction, and after murmuring something which she could not hear, they both proceeded in silence. Their journey home was accomplished in a few days the music of his clarionet still appealing to the kind-hearted for their support. One thing, however, did not escape Jane's observation, and that was, that he played as they went along scarcely any other tune than his favorite "Bonnie Jean." "William," said she, "why don't you change the tune oftener, you've played hardly any other tune but your own;" for so he always calledit. He stood, on hearing this, and shook his head in a mournful manner. "Is that true?" he inquired. One evening about a fortnight after his return "home," on hearing that the sun shone warmly and calmly, he begged to sit outside the door, and desired Jane to sit with him. His wish was complied with, and he appeared to muse for some time, occasionally wafting his hand to and fro in the light. "I will know it yet," he murmured—“ I will know it yet-I will see it-I will see it—and why should I be sorry? Oh," he exclaimed in a low voice-it's for her-it's for her-how will she live alone. Jane," said he aloud. "I am here," said she, "here at your side." "Ay," said he, "where you ever were. Well did you keep the vow your love gave the blind boy-well did you keep it." "William," said his wife, bursting into tears, "you're thinking of nothing but death—and it may not be so near as you suppose.” "It's near me, Jane-my Bonnie Jean,' it's near me, and I'll tell you how I know it. I dreamt the night before the morning we set out for home that I was in some place that I didn't know, and I thought I heard two voices saying to me-Wiliam, your bed is made, come and lie down.' I felt as if I knew the voices, although I can't tell how-but I was sure they were my father and my mother's. I thought they brought me over to the "Indeed it is," she returned, "you have hardly bed, and desired me to feel how white and soft it played any other." He simply answered "I didn't know it-I wasn't aware of it; the heart-the heart, Jane, will have its way." They had now arrived near their birthplace, and as his exhaustion and fatigue were greater than he had for some time felt, they both entered it in silence. Here, as every where else, they found the vestiges of death and change-prosperity and decline. Philip, the doctor, and almost all the seniors of the hamlet were gone, and another generation in their place, toiling on in the busy struggle of life. Philip's sons and grandsons were now in their own houses, each and all of them comfortable and prosperous. The orphan's boon appeared to have had a blessing, for from the day on which it was bestowed, until that on which he came among them for the last time, every thing went well with them and theirs. was. 'What bed is this?' I inquired. It's the bed of peace,' said they. I then felt it with my hands, and, as they said, it was soft and easy-bat something softer still was strewed here and there over it. What is this?' said 1, lifting one of them up. Its a rose-leaf,' they answered them that have loving hearts sleep upon them.' I then p my hand down to feel them again, but instead of either the rose-leaves or the bed, I found my hand on what I well know—their own grave.” "Well," replied Jane, "but I hope that dream isn't for death. "Bring me now," said he, without noticing what she said "bring me in and let me lie a while on the bed." She did so, and after about half an hour he said, "get me my clarionet." "I am afraid you haven't strength to play it," she observed; "maybe it would injure you even to make the trial." "I like to have it-I like to have it about me,” he replied-" except yourself and it, where had I a friend?" They lodged with Philip's youngest son, whose attentions were full of kindness and grateful respect to the grey-haired benefactor of his family. Jane now imagined that rest and comfort would recruit the strength and cheer the spirits of her William, I cannot keep my tears in," said the husband. During a week or so her hopes were wife, "there's something in the sorrowful way you sanguine, for he felt no particular illness. A gra- speak that breaks my heart." dual decay of all his natural functions seemed to Jane, we lived a happy life together, dear, and have absolutely weighed him down; his appetite that should prevent your sorrow; but how is it that 66 my heart goes back in spite of me to the early time." “I don't know,” said she, “it's the same way with mine. I remember the Sunday you thought I deserted you, as if it was yesterday, and I think I see you wandering with a breaking heart about the fields, believing that your own Jane was faithless to you because you were blind.” "You remember too," said he, "how I used to fall asleep and often cry myself asleep with my head upon your breast when I was a boy. And how is it, Jane, that we don't think of all the hardships we suffered then, although we do of all that passed when we first loved one another?" "Because," she replied, wiping her eyes, the heart won't forget any thing it loves." “Jane, you mustn't cry," said he, "keep your spirits up. I am not low-spirited. I am very happy. As long as you're with me I'm happy Sure it's childish to cry because we happen to be speaking of the early times. I'll sit up on the bedside; give me your hand-there-I'll do-now bring in Philip.” "Philip, dear,” said she, with surprise, for Philip had no son of that name living. "Alick you mean." "I am very well able to play yet," said he, not noticing her" bring in Philip till I play him his favorite 'the Blackbird" "-for this, indeed, had been Philip's favorite tune. His affectionate wife's heart sank at this obvious confusion in his memory, but she thought it better to bring Alick and permit him to have his way. In truth the poor woman could deny him nothing. The man and his wife were accordingly brought into the room, having first been cautioned as to his lapse of memory. He smiled on hearing them, like a man very much gratified. “Philip,” said he, "I want to play you 'The Blackbird.' It's a sweet tune, and has many a tear in it; no wonder you like it." He then commenced, and to their utter surprise played "Bonnie Jean," without at all appearing conscious of his error. "I could once have done it better," he said, "but I am not so strong now in breath as I used to be-still it's sweet and goes to my heart, or rather for many a long year it has never been out of it. Jane," said he, “Jane!" But this last proof of his undying and unconscious affection had utterly overcome her-she sat weeping beside the bed, and could not answer him for some time. "You're crying, Jane," said he, "but you mustn't cry-dry your eyes-I want you to sing me 'John Anderson;' many a time she sung it for me, Philip; and little you knew then how happy she and I were indeed little the world knew it--but we were, and that was enough; Jane, sing 'John Anderson,' and when you've done, I'll sing a song for you." Jane, though deeply affected, prepared to comply. "Sit beside me, dear," said he, "sit beside me-and, Jane, at no time be far from me-don't sit far away, but just that I can hear your breath." He then got her hand in his, and seldom, indeed, were these beautiful verses, steeped as they are in domestic tenderness, ever sung with deeper pathos or purer feeling. On coming to the last two lines, "Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go, And sleep together at the foot, John Anderson my jo!" she failed, and instead of finishing them, wept bit terly. "If you didn't cry," said he, "you could sing them out, the words are sorrowful and true-we will sleep together-my bed's made-don't-don't -Jane, if you don't I'll cry, we'll both stroll together where we often were bego out to-morrow, and fore-and we'll think of what I still like, the early times-the early times. I'll sing you a song. 'I'm wearin' awa, Jean, Like snaw when its thaw, Jean, To the land of the leal. 'There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day's aye fair, Jean, In the land of the leal. 'Dry your glistening e'e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, Angels wait on me, Jean, To the land of the leal. 'Ye've been leal and true, Jean, You're task's near done now, Jean, And I'll welcome you, Jean, To the land of the leal.' Jane," he proceeded, "you're changed-you're changed-don't cry, my darling-if you are, sure I am changed too, but our hearts are the same. Let me feel you, dear-your poor face has indeed sorrow on it—but you're crying-were they bad to you at home. Philip was rough to me, but if you let me lay my head upon your breast, then you may cry over me when I fall asleep." All present were shedding tears; but the last words, by which his wife perceived that his heart, as he said, wandered back to the early times, shook her delicate frame with such an intensity of mute affection as she had never felt before. He lay in this tender and affecting position for about ten minutes, when he started suddenly from her bosom, and said was it a dream? I am weak-let me lay my head on your breast for a while. There's something wrong with me. What is this-what is this?" Jane kissed his cheek; and then, laying his head on her bosom, felt him give a slight struggle, one deep sigh, and the next moment he who had been her orphan boy-her orphan lover, had passed away to that life where there are neither tears nor sorrow. Leave the lone sleeper to her tranquil rest, J. T. L THE MUSSULMAN'S DEITY. A few years ago, when travelling in Asia Minor, I visi ted the town of Thyatira, one of the seven candlesticks of read it in some inscriptions. At the Khan or caravanserai the Apocalypse. This name was written Theathers, as I where I lodged, there were travellers from various parts of Turkey. Among others, was a Dervish from Conish, where there is an extensive tekèh, or Monastery, for the Mevlevi order of Dervishes. Osman-Zadeh was a venerable personage, of courtecas manners and skilled in all the learning of the Dervishes. Our intimacy increased by frequent conversations. He. finally, as an evidence of his friendship and confidence, read to me a poem written by himself upon the Being and A few weeks after his interment, the afflicted widow found that her heart could not be still. The only bequest he had left her was the memory of his love and sorrows, and his clarionet. But, as we said, her heart refused to be quiet; it could not rest, and even if it had, the man whom her husband's bounty had been the means of making independent, did not offer her an asylum. It was now to her a melancholy pleasure to traverse the scenes over which they had for so long a period of human life gone hand in hand together. In this way she now passes her life, as well from inclination as necessity; and still does the same touching delicacy of feeling, the same unexampled beauty attributes of God. Time did not allow me to have a copy of abiding attachment, characterize her. Every of it made, could I have had the consent of Osman-Zadeh I however took notes at the moment, as the poem impressed week-day in some part of the metropolis may she me sensibly with its beauties. From those notes, I have be seen walking slowly along, with an expression written the few following stanzas, which may convey some on her pale features and person inexpressibly way-imperfect idea of the Dervish's muse and of Mussulman worn and lonely. She solicits nothing, but merely theology. displays the clarionet bound with crape―an affecting memorial in the eyes of the humane, of their humble occupation, and of the unprecedented attachment that subsisted between this orphan couple. London, June, 1841. THE ORPHAN'S REST. Break not the visions mid her slumbers gleaming, Too fair for grief to press, seems that young brow Fluvanna, Va., July, 1841. Nor earth nor sky, nor time nor space, Confine that essence bright, Ages are all, and every place Before the starry worlds did shine In order round his throne, He was, in majesty divine To him, in Heaven, no forms of things, His attributes, perfection are, All Being's nurtured by his care, He sees the past, what is to be, W. B. H On a throne of glittering gold, dazzling all eyes with rubies and sapphires, emeralds, diamonds, and all the gorgeous magnificence of the East, twelve hundred princes, or sons of princes, standing before him to obey his slightest behest, sat Alp Arslan, the Valiant Lion, the greatest of the Seljukian branch of the Turkman race. And this was his mightiest hour. Victorious over every land, from the frontiers of China to the Georgian mountains, rich beyond count with the spoils of fifty conquered cities, the foe most feared, the army of Romanus Diogenes, whitening amongst the hills of Trebizond; and now with two hundred thousand soldiers, the bravest in Asia, across the Oxus, on the way to the almost certain conquest of his ancestral Turkestan, this potent Sultan seemed one with whom the angel of death could have no reckoning He was now in the prime of life, beautiful as a star, his face and voice and air, such as should belong to high majesty, his stature more exalted than that of any of the proud chiefs who surrounded his throne. 66 Never had the earth seen a more majestic being than Alp Arslan, the Turkman King. The deep silence which pervaded the royal tent was broken by the Great King himself. Nizam," he said to the illustrious minister, who, for thirty years, directed the councils of Alp Arslan, and his famous son, Malek Shah, "What news from the great rebel?"" my bravest warriors," was the first word of the monarch. "Aha! Would I had had the scythe of Monkir to have left the Scythian dog without a spear save his own." And the rebel intimated by a fierce gesture, what he would have done then. "Monkir will I be to thee and thine. What hast thou to say, why I should not bid thee taste the pangs of impalement ?" "To do so were worthy the descendant of a Turkman goatherd, the meanness of whose soul renders him incapable of estimating the valor of a noble foe." "That is not true valor which exposes brave men to useless peril. What could thy defence avail against the armies of me, thy lord ?" "Thou never wast lord of mine. The Seljukian goatherd lord of Joseph the Carizmian! Pah." "Proud dog! I will punish thy insolence, by To four stakes thou shalt be fastened by cords making thee know death in its most torturing form. which shall stretch thy sinews to their utmost extent, and so shalt thou be left without food or water to close thy dog's life." reached the ears of the fierce mountain chief, he drew from his bosom a concealed dagger, and rushed headlong towards the throne. The air instantly gleamed with the battle-axes of the guards, but Alp Arslan was the most expert archer of the left to his own arm the grateful task of self defence. age-he was proud of his archery, and the guards With the speed of lightning he drew his bow, but object, and an instant after, the dagger of Joseph his foot slipped, the arrow glanced aside from its the Carizmian was in his breast. The rebel himself was immediately cut into a thousand pieces by the enraged soldiery. As the last words of this terrible sentence Stretched on a couch of golden tissue, the banhundred victories, surrounded by all the pageantry ner waving o'er him which had been borne in a princes and weeping omrahs, lay Alp Arslan, the of a court, and that court Oriental, by awe-struck Valiant Lion, in the agonies of death. His spirit was still untamed, but his reason was awake to the “Lord of the Earth,” replied the minister, with folly of human pride, and the miserable weakness the usual prostration; "Joseph, late governor of and dependence of the mightiest man alive. As Berzem, is a prisoner at the door of the royal tent." film of death, he spoke thus, and history has transhe gazed around, with eyes clouding fast with the "Bring him hither," said the Sultan to the cap-mitted this as his dying speech. main of the guard. At his command they brought the daring rebel Ento the presence of the greatest man in the Eastern world. Unabashed by the splendors of a scene so new, unawed by the mighty majesty of the moarch himself, the Carizmian stood coolly bandying Serce looks with the master of his fate. "Son of a dog! thou hast cost me thousands of * See Gibbon. VOL. VII-66 "In my youth," said he, "when I was like a wild horse, A sage said to me,' Alp Arslan, humble thyself before God-distrust thine own strength, and, however weak and contemptible be thy foe, the wise man, and behold I am punished. It was despise him not.' I have neglected the saying of but yesterday that as I stood surveying my camp, and beheld the numbers and discipline of my armies, the earth seemed to tremble under my feet, and I said in my heart, Alp Arslan, thou art surely | While the fragrant woodbine weaves its tapestry, the King of the world; of all warriors, the great-Tis here, thou rear'st thy stately queenly head, And the wild rose, the floating breeze perfumes. est and most invincible. These armies are mine no longer, and in the confidence of personal strength I die by the hands of an assassin." The remains of the monarch were deposited in the tomb of the Seljukian dynasty, at Maru. Upon this tomb ages after might be read the following sublime inscription. Oh, ye, who have beheld the glory of Alp Arslan exalted to the heavens, REPAIR TO MARU, and you will behold it buried in the dust." Often in my journey through life, I have thought of the inscription on the tomb of the Turkman monarch, and not unfrequently made application of it to human actions and pursuits. As I have seen the lovely maiden with locks of gold rolling over her fair and delicate shoulders, chasing the painted butterflies of youthful folly and vanity; as I have seen the statesman climbing the ladder of a sateless ambition to the destruction of the best interests of his country; as I have seen the soldier, like his prototype of the inscription, glorying like Attila at Chalons in the "certaminis gauda"-the rapture of the strife, I have exclaimed," REPAIR TO MARU, and behold human glory buried in the dust." MUSINGS, ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF LAUREL FROM MY BIRTHPLACE. And dost sweep back from Mem'ry's scroll, the dust Ay! as I tearful gaze on thee, fast croud The tender recollections of the past; And on thy dew-kissed leaves I lay mine ear, Steered by sad Memory, whose gentle eyes Where smile with fresh'ning verdure, childhood's isles Or dipping with capricious, restless grace, Here too the harebell droops its beauteous head, Oh! flower, with Mem'ry linked! Thro' wooded dell, bank Thou'st bowed thy blushing blossoms, till they kissed the tide As if thou listening wert, to that sweet melody, O'er whose bright heads dull care had smiling paused, As if he could not brush his shadowy wing, Within the Elfin Bark. Where are ye fled, Creatures of youth's glad hour! Undimm'd and fresh He, The dark-haired boy, whose tall, elastic form |