Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd,
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,

Of nations freed and the world overjoy'd,
Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb:
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
Of feeling for some kindness done, when power
Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.

HAIDEE.

THEY Carpeted their feet On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue; Their sofa occupied three parts complete

Of the apartment-and appear'd quite new ; The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue.

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain,

Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats
And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain,
Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats,
And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gan.
Their bread as ministers and favourites-(that's

To say, by degradation)-mingled there

As plentiful as in a court, or fair.

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and
The tables, most of ebony inlaid

"Era gia l' ora che volge 'l desio,

A' naviganti, e 'ntenerisce il cuore ;
Lo di ch' han detto a' dolci amici a dio;
E che lo nuovo peregrin' d' amore

Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano,

Che paia' giorno pianger che si muore."

DANTE'S Purgatory, canto viii

This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken by him without acknowledgment.

T See Suetonius for this fact

With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand,
Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made,
Fretted with gold or silver:-by command,

The greater part of these were ready spread
With viands and sherbets in ice-and wine-
Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine.

Of all the dresses I select Haidée's:

She wore two jelicks-one was of pale yellow;
Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise-

'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow
With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas,

All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow,
And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her,
Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her."
One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm,
Lockless-so pliable from the pure gold

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm,
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould;
So beautiful-its very shape would charm,
And clinging as if loath to lose its hold,
The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin
That e'er by precious metal was held in.*

Around, as princess of her father's land,

A like gold bar above her instep roll'd,+
Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;
Her hair was starr'd with gems; her veil's fine fold
Below her breast was fasten'd with a band

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;
Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd

Above the prettiest ankle in the world.

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun
Dyes with his morning light,-and would conceal
Her person if allow'd at large to run,+

And still they seem resentfully to feel

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun
Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began
To offer his young pinion as her fan.

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes,
They were so soft and beautiful, and rife
With all we can imagine of the skies,

This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are worn in the manner described The reader will perceive, hereafter, that as the mother of Haidée was of Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country.

The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sovereign rank in the women of the families of the deys, and is worn as such by their female relatives.

This is no exaggeration: there were four women whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their hair in this profusion; of these, three were English, the other was a Levanting. Their hair was of that length and quantity, that, when let down, it almost entirely shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a superfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair; the Oriental's had, perhaps, the lightest colour of the four.

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife-
Too pure even for the purest human ties;
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged
(It is the country's custom), but in vain ;
For those large black eyes were so blackly fringe,
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain,
And in their native beauty stood avenged:

Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again
The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for
They could not look more rosy than before.

The henna should be deeply dyed to make
T'he skin relieved appear more fairly fair;
She had no need of this, day ne'er will break
On mountain-tops more heavenly white than her;
The eye might doubt if it were well awake,
She was so like a vision; I might err,
But Shakspeare also says, 'tis very silly
"To gild refined gold, or paint the lily."

VAIN REGRETS.

BUT now at thirty years my hair is gray(I wonder what it will be like at forty?

I thought of a peruke the other day-)

My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, And feel no more the spirit to retort; I

Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.

No more no more-Oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee,
Think'st thou the honey with those objects grow!
Alas! 'twas not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.

No more no more-Oh! never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!

Once all in all, but now a thing apart,

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,

And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token,

O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken,

"Time is, Time was, Time 's past: "-a chymic treasure Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimesMy heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

THE SLAVE-MARKET.

"TWAS a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning,
When nights are equal, but not so the days;
The Parcæ then cut short the further spinning
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise
The waters, and repentance for past sinning

In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways:
They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't;
Because if drown'd, they can't-if spared, they won't.

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation,

And age, and sex, were in the market ranged;

Each bevy with the merchant in his station:

Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed.

All save the blacks seemed jaded with vexation,

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged, The negroes more philosophy display'd,

Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd.

Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale,
Though rather more irregularly spotted:

Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale.
It chanced amongst the other people lotted,

A man of thirty, rather stout and hale,
With resolution in his dark grey eye,
Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy.

He had an English look; that is, was square
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy,
Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair,
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study,
An open brow, a little mark'd with care:

One arm had on a bandage rather bloody;

And there he stood with such sang froid, that greater
Could scare be shown even by a mere spectator.

Just now a black old neutral personage

Of the third sex stept up, and peering over
The captives, seem'd to mark their looks and age,
And capabilities, as to discover

If they were fitted for the purposed cage:
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover,

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor,
Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,

As is a slave by his intended bidder.

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold if you consider

Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are bought up, others by a warlike leader,

Some by a place-as tend their years or natures;
The most by ready cash-but all have prices,
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care,
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid
First but for one, and after for the pair;

They haggled, wrangled, swore, too-so they did!
As though they were in a mere Christian fair
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid;
So that their bargain sounded like a battle
For this superior yoke of human cattle.

At last they settled into simple grumbling,
And pulling out reluctant purses, and
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling
Some down, and weighing others in their hand,
And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,
Until the sum was accurately scann'd,

And then the merchant, giving change, and signing
Receipts in full, began to think of dining.

I wonder if his appetite was good?

Or, if it were, if also his digestion?

Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude,
And conscience ask a curious sort of question

About the right divine, how far we should

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppressed one, I think it is, perhaps, the gloomiest hour

Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.

THE LOVERS.

THE heart which may be broken: happy they!
Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile mould,
The precious porcelain of human clay,

Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold
The long year link'd with heavy day on day,
And all which must be borne, and never told;
While life's strange principle will often lie
Deepest in those who long the most to die.