a garden the best place to think out his thoughts. In the disabled statesman every restless throb of regret or ambition is stilled when he looks upon his blossomed apple-trees. Is the fancy too far brought, that this love for gardens is a reminiscence haunting the race of that s remote time in the world's dawn when but two persons existed—a gardener named Adam, and a gardener's wife called Eve?

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XIV.

THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

BY THOMAS MOORE.'

WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, 10
Its temples and grottos and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

Oh! to see it at sunset-when warm o'er the Lake
Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half

shown,

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

And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ring

ing.

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

From the cool, shining walks where the young people

meet.

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaksHills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun. When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day, From his Harem of night-flowers stealing away; And the wind, full of wantonness, wooes like a lover The young aspen-trees, till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurled, Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes, Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world! But never yet, by night or day, In dew of spring or summer's ray, Did the sweet Valley shine so gay As now it shines-all love and light, Visions by day and feasts by night! A happier smile illumes each brow,

With quicker spread each heart uncloses, And all is ecstasy-for now

The Valley holds its Feast of Roses; The joyous Time, when pleasures pour Profusely round, and in their shower Hearts open, like the Season's Rose,

The Flow'ret of a hundred leaves, Expanding while the dew-fall flows, And every leaf its balm receives.

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'Twas when the hour of evening came
Upon the Lake, serene and cool,
When Day had hid his sultry flame

Behind the palms of Baramoule;
When maids began to lift their heads,
Refresh'd, from their embroidered beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,
And waked to moonlight and to play.
All were abroad-the busiest hive
On Bela's hills is less alive,
When saffron-beds are full in flower,
Than looked the Valley in that hour.
A thousand restless torches played
Through every grove and island shade;
A thousand sparkling lamps were set
On every dome and minaret;
And fields and path-ways, far and near,
Were lighted by a blaze so clear
That you could see, in wand'ring round,
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.
Yet did the maids and matrons leave
Their veils at home that brilliant eve;
And there were glancing eyes about,
And cheeks that would not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
Look lovely then, because 'twas night.
And all were free, and wandering,

And all exclaimed to all they met,
That never did the summer bring
So gay a Feast of Roses yet;
The moon had never shed a light

So clear as that which blessed them there;

The roses ne'er shone half so bright,

Nor they themselves looked half so fair.

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XV.

THE EAGLE'S NEST.

BY JOHN WILSON.'

ALMOST all the people in the parish were loading in their meadow-hay on the same day of midsummer, so drying was the sunshine and the wind; and huge, heaped-up wains, that almost hid from view the horses that drew them along the sward, beginning to get green with second growth, were moving in all directions towards the snug farm-yard. Never before had the parish seemed so populous. Jocund was the balmy air with laughter, whistle, and song. But the tree-gnomons' threw the shadow of "one o'clock" on the green dial-face of 10 the earth; the horses were unyoked and turned loose to graze; groups of men, women, lads, lasses, and children collected under grove and bush and hedge-row; graces were pronounced, some of them rather too tedious in presence of the mantling milk-cans, bullion-bars of 15 butter, and crackling cakes; and the great Being who gave them that day their daily bread looked down from His eternal throne, well pleased with the piety of His thankful creatures.

The great golden eagle, the pride and pest of the par- 20 ish, swooped down and flew away with something in its talons. One single, sudden, female shriek arose, and then shouts and outcries, as if a church-spire had tumbled down on a congregation at a sacrament. "Hannah Lamond's bairn! Hannah Lamond's bairn!" was 25 the loud, fast-spreading cry. "The eagle has ta'en off

Hannah Lamond's bairn!" and many hundred feet were in another instant hurrying towards the mountain.

Two miles of hill and dale, and copse and shingle, and many intersecting brooks, lay between; but in an incredibly short time the foot of the mountain was alive with people. The eyry was well known, and both old birds were visible on the rock-ledge. But who shall scale that dizzy cliff, which Mark Stewart, the sailor, who had been at the storming of many a fort, attempted in vain? All kept gazing, weeping, wringing their 10 hands in vain, rooted to the ground, or running back and forward, like so many ants essaying their new wings in discomfiture. "What's the use-what's the use o' ony puir human means? We have no power but in prayer!" and many knelt down-fathers and mothers 15 thinking of their own babies-as if they would force the deaf heavens to hear!

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Hannah Lamond had all this while been sitting on a rock, with a face perfectly white, and eyes like those of a mad person, fixed on the eyry. Nobody had noticed 20 her; for, strong as all sympathies with her had been at the swoop of the eagle, they were now swallowed up in the agony of eyesight. "Only last Sabbath was my sweet wee wean baptized in the name o' the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost!" and on uttering these 25 words, she flew off through the brakes and over the huge stones, up--up-up-faster than ever huntsman ran in to the death, fearless as a goat playing among the precipices. No one doubted-no one could doubtthat she would soon be dashed to pieces. But have not‰0 people who walk in their sleep, obedient to the mysterious guidance of dreams, climbed the walls of old ruins, and found footing, even in decrepitude, along the edge of unguarded battlements, and down dilapidated