SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES.

BY L. E. L.

THE CARRIER-PIGEON RETurned.

Sunset has flung its glory o'er the floods,
That wind amid Ionia's myrtle woods,-
Sunset that dies a conqueror in his splendour;
But the warm crimson ray

Has almost sunk away

Beneath a purple twilight faint and tender.

Soft are the hues around the marble fanes,
Whose marble shines amid the wooded plains,-
Fanes where a false but lovely creed was kneeling,-
A creed that held divine

All that was but a sign,

The outward to the inward world appealing.

Earth was a child and child-like in those hours, Full of fresh feelings, and scarce conscious powers, Around its own impatient beauty flinging,These young believings were

Types of the true and fair,

The holy faith that Time was calmly bringing.
Still to those woods, with ruins fill'd, belong

The ancient immortality of song,

Names and old words whose music is undying,-
Yet do they haunt the heart

With its divinest part,

The past that to the present is replying.

The purple ocean far beneath her feet,

The wild thyme on the fragrant hill her seat,

As in the days of old there leans a Maiden,-
Many have watch'd before

The breaking waves ashore,

Faint with uncounted moments sorrow-laden.

With cold and trembling hand

She has undone the band

Around the carrier-pigeon just alighted,

And instant dies away

The transitory ray

From the dark eye it had one instant lighted.

The sickness of a hope too long deferred
Sinks on her heart,-it is no longer stirred
By the quick presence of the sweet emotion,-
Sweet even unto pain,

With which she sees again

Her bird come sweeping o'er the purple ocean.
Woe for the watcher,-still it doth not bring
A letter nestled fragrant 'neath its wing;
There is no answer to her fond inquiring,-
Again, and yet again,

No letter o'er the main

Quiets the anxious spirit's fond desiring.

Down the ungather'd darkness of her hair
Floats like a pall that covers her despair,-
What woman's care hath she in her adorning?
The noontide's sultry hours

Have wither'd the white flowers,

Binding its dark lengths in the early morning.

All day her seat hath been beside the shore
Watching for him who will return no more;
He thinks not of her or her weary weeping.
Absence, it is thy lot

To be too soon forgot,

Or to leave memory but to one sad keeping.

Oh, folly of a loving heart that clings

With desperate faith, to which each moment brings

Quick and faint gleams an instant's thought must smother, And yet finds mocking scope

For some unreal hope,

Which would appear despair to any other!

She knows the hopelessness of what she seeks,

And yet, as soon as rosy morning breaks,

Doth she unloose her pigeon's silken fetter;
But thro' the twilight air

No more its pinions bear

What once so oft they brought-the false one's letter.

The harvest of the summer-rose is spread,

But lip and cheek with her have lost their red;
Theirs is the paleness of the soul's consuming-
Fretfully day by day

In sorrow worn away;

Youth, joy, and bloom have no more sure entombing.

It is a common story, which the air

Has had around the weary world to bear,

That of the trusting spirit's vain accusing;
Yet once how firm and fond

Seemed the eternal bond

That now a few brief parted days are loosing.

Close to her heart the weary pigeon lies,

Gazing upon her with its earnest eyes,

Which seem to ask-Why are we thus neglected?
It is the still despair

Of passion forced to bear

Its deep and tender offering rejected,

Poor girl! her soul is heavy with the past;
Around the shades of night are falling fast;
Heavier still the shadow passing o'er her.
The maiden will no more

Watch on the sea-beat shore

The darkness of the grave is now before her.

II.

ALEXANDER ON THE BANKS OF THE HYPHASIS.

Lonely by the moonlit waters

Does the conqueror stand,

Yet unredden'd by the slaughters

Of his mighty band.

Yet his laurel wants a leaf.
There he stands, sad, silent, lonely;
For his hope is vain :

He has reached that river only
To return again.

Mournful bends the matchless chief;
He-the earth's unrivalled one-
He must leave his task undone.

Far behind the camp lies sleeping-
Gods! how can they sleep,

Pale fear o'er their slumbers creeping,
With a world to weep?

With a victory to win.

There they lie in craven slumber,
By their murmurs won-

Must their earthly weakness cumber
Jove's immortal son?

From the ardent fire within,
Is there no impelling ray
To excite their onward way?

No! beside that moonlit river
Stands the soldier-king,

While he hears the night-wind shiver
With a weary wing--

With a weary sound to hear.

By the numerous shadows broken
On the river's brim,

From the mirror'd stars a token

That his star is dim.

Changed and sullen they appear.
To a great and fix'd despair
All things fate and omen are.

Far away the plains are spreading
Various, dark and vast-

Where a thousand tombs are shading
Memories from the past-

He must leave them still unknown. All the world's ancestral learningSecrets strange and old

Early wisdom's dark discerning
Must remain untold.

Mighty is the hope o'erthrown—
Mighty was the enterprise

Which upon that moment dies. ]

With the moonlight on them sleeping
Stands each stately palm,

Like to ancient warriors keeping

Vigil stern and calm

O'er a prostrate world below.

Sudden from beneath their shadow

Forth a serpent springs,

O'er the sands as o'er a meadow,

Winding in dark rings.

Stately doth it glide, and slow
Like an omen in a dream,
Does that giant serpent seem.

Silvery rose those far sands shining,
Where that shade was cast-
While the king with stern repining
Watched the serpent past.

Sadly did the conqueror say-
"Would my steps were like my spirit,
I would track thy path!

What those distant sands inherit,
What this new world hath,

Should grow bright around my way.
Ah! not mine yon glorious sphere-
My world's boundary is here!"

Pale he stood, the moonlight gleaming
In his golden hair-

Somewhat of a spirit's seeming,
Glorious and fair,

Is upon that radiant brow.

Like the stars that kindle heaven

In the sacred night,

To those blue, clear eyes were given

An unearthly light,

Though the large tears fill them now;

For the Macedonian wept

As his midnight watch he kept.

In those mighty tears o'erflowing
Found the full heart scope
For the bitter overthrowing

Of its noblest hope;

So will many weep again.

Our aspirings have arisen

In another world;

Life is but the spirit's prison,

Where its wings are furl'd,

Stretching to their flight in vain,—
Seeking that eternal home

Which is in a world to come.

Like earth's proudest conqueror, turning

From his proudest field,

Is the human soul still yearning

For what it must yield

Of dreams unfulfill'd and powers.

Like the great yet guided ocean

Is our mortal mind,

Stirr'd by many a high emotion,
But subdued, confined;-

Such are shadows of the hours,
Glorious in the far-off gloom,
But whose altar is the tomb!

[There is something singularly fine in Alexander's appeal to his army, when the Indian world lay before them, but more present to their fears than to their hopes. "For my own part," said the ardent conqueror, "I recognise no limits to the labours of a high-spirited man, but the failure of adequate objects." Never was more noble motto for all human achievement; and it was from a lofty purpose that the Macedonians turned back on the banks of the Hyphasis. But it is the same with all mortal enterprise: nothing is, in this world, carried out to its complete fulfilment. Our mortality predominates in a world only meant to be a passage to another.]

CONFESSIONS AND OPINIONS OF RALPH RESTLESS.

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT, C.B.

London, June, 1837.

To one who has visited foreign climes, how very substantial everything appears in England, from the child's plaything to the Duke of York's column! To use a joiner's phrase, everything abroad is scamp-work. Talk about the Palais Royale, the Rue Richelieu, and the splendour of the Parisian shops-why, two hundred yards of Regent-street, commencing from Howell and James's, would buy the whole of them, and leave a balance sufficient to buy the remainder of the French expositions. But still, if substantial and massive, it is also heavy. We want more space, more air, more room to breathe, in London; we are too closely packed; we want gardens with trees to absorb the mephitic air, for what our lungs reject is suitable to vegetation. But we cannot have all we want in this world, so we will do without them.

What wealth is now pouring into the country! and, thank God, it is now somewhat better expended than it was in the bubble mania which acted upon the plethora certainly, but bled us too freely and uselessly. The rail-road speculators have taken off many millions, and the money is well employed-for even allowing that, in some instances, the expectations of the parties who speculate should be disappointed, still it is spent in the country, and is affording not only employment and sustenance to thousands and thousands, but the staple produce of England only is consumed. In these speculations—in the millions required and immediately produced-you can witness the superiority of England. Undertakings from which foreign governments would shrink with dismay, are here effected by the meeting of a few individuals. Speaking of foreign governments, I must however except America, for I do believe that if it was required to make a rail-road to the moon they would, at all events, attempt it.

And now for my commissions. What a list! And the first item is -two Canary birds, the last having been one fine morning found dead; nobody knows how; there was plenty of seed and water (put in after the servant found that they had been starved by his neglect), which, of course, proved that they did not die for want of food. I hate what are called pets; they are a great nuisance, for they will die, and then such a lamentation over them! In the "Fire Worshippers "Moore makes his Hinda say

"I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well
And love me-it was sure to die."

Now Hinda was perfectly correct, except in thinking that she was peculiarly unfortunate. Every one who keeps pets might tell the same tale as Hinda. I recollect once a Canary bird died, and my young people were in a great tribulation, so to amuse them we made them a paper coffin, put the defunct therein, and sewed on the lid, dug a grave