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the Sultan? The interests of Russia or has the world yet to witness new are unquestionably bound up in its phases in this Eastern question, and permanence and developement. The are centuries still to elapse before interests of the Porte are actually sa. “ the river Euphrates shall be dried crificed by its provisions, The inte up, that the way of the kings of the rests of Great Britain, France, and East may be prepared ?” The status Austria are necessarily compromised quo is next to impossible ; not perby the Russian possession of the Bos- haps for the hour, the month, or the phorus, which virtually that treaty year, but for almost the shortest peensures. By the treaty of Adrianople, riod of a nation's history. We count Turkey obliged herself to pay to the our lives by moments--those of nations autocrat ten millions of ducats. By by years. The Eastern question canthe treaty of Unkiar Skelessi, she sold not be SETTLED without war and conher freedom for a mess of pottage. As flagration. It may be postponed she was unable to defend herself, and not long—but for a short space of as her “ faithful" allies would not time,—its settlement by diplomacy is defend her, therefore, by an everlast- impossible. The decline and fall of ing law of life among nations, she is empires, long since unknown but in no longer an independent state-she the works of the historian, should is no more. Is this treaty, then, to teach us that the present position of the be suffered to remain as the political affairs of the East is only preparatory nightshade over the destinies of the to a mighty catastrophe. The Moham. Porte ? If so, Turkey must expire, medan empire is reaching the closing Russia announces her fixed resolu- period of its eventful history. But tion to maintain the integrity of the what is to supersede it? Is the Stamtreaty, and to make war for its pre- boul of the past to be inhabited by adservation. England has refused, by vancing Cossacks, and the yet uncivithe Whigs, to go to war with Russia. lized hordes of the Russian forests ? She has sacrificed the freedom of the Is the ancient Byzantium, once the Black Sea, and the independence of seat of the Roman empire in the east, the Bosphorus, to her policy in Ire- to become the capital of another desland and her internal squabbles about potism, not less tyrannical, but far less pretended reform. France looks on. enlightened ? Is the Archipelago to Austria imitates her example. The become the private property of the treaty of Unkiar Skelessi exists, and Russian Czars ? Is the Sea of Marmora Turkey is gradually expiring beneath to be closed to all pendants but that the “ protection" of the Czar. of the eagle of the north ? Are the

Seventh, and finally, Is the Turkish Turks to saunter, as strangers in a empire to be reconstituted ? or is an strange land, amongst the ruins of their Egyptian and Syrian empire to be former glories ? Are their children to founded ? Are we approaching the pe. feel that they are ruled by a stranger's riod when that mighty Mohammedan hand as they walk on the Hippodrome, colossus which bestrode the world is or enter the temple of St Sophia ? We for ever to disappear, and when new cannot answer these questions ; but states and empires are to arise on the appearances are all in favour of the ruins of error, vice, and superstition? affirmative.

THE BOWER OF PEACE.

BY DELTA.

WHEN Hope's illusions all have waned,

And Silence broods above the dead ; When Sorrow's clouds have gloom'd, and rain'd

Full oft on man's devoted head, The time-taught spirit loves to wend

Back ough the past its mazy way, And see the early larks ascend

Up to the gates of day: While earth, outspread to childhood's glance, Glow'd like a dream of bright romance. 'Twas in the depth of dazzling May,

When bland the air, and blue the skies;
When groves in blossom'd pride were gay,

And flow'rets of innumerous dyes
Gemm'd Earth's green carpet, that I stray'd,

On a salubrious morning bright,
Out to the champaign, and survey'd,

With thrillings of delight,
Landscapes around my path unfurld,
That made an Eden of this world.
I listen'd to the blackbird's

song,
That, from the covert of green trees,
Came, like a hymn of heaven along,

Borne on the bloom-enamour'd breeze : I listen'd to the birds that trillid,

Each in its turn, some witching note :
With insect swarms the air was fillid,

Their wintry sleep forgot;
Such was the summer feeling there,
God's love seem'd breathing every where.
The water-lilies in the waves
Rear'd

up

their crowns all freshly green, And, bursting forth as from their graves,

King-cups and daffodils were seen: The lambs were frisking in the mead;

Beneath the white-flower'd chestnut-tree
The ox reclined his stately head,

And bent his placid knee:
From brakes the linnets caroll'd loud,
While larks responded from the cloud.
I stood upon a high green hill,

On an oak stump mine elbow laid,
And, pondering, leant to gaze my fill

Of glade and glen, in pomp array'd.
Beneath me, on a daisied mound,

A peaceful dwelling I espied,
Girt with its orchard branches round,

And bearing on its side
Rich cherry-trees, whose blossoms white
Half robb’d the windows of their light.
There dosed the mastiff on the green-

His night-watch finish'd; and, elate,
The strutting turkey-cock was seen,
Arching his fan-like tail in state.
There was an air of placid rest

Around the spot so blandly spread, That sure the inmates must be blest,

Unto my soul I said ;

To gaze

Sin, strife, or sorrow, cannot come,
To desolate so sweet, a home!
Far from the hum of crowds remote,

From life's parade and idle show, 'Twould be an enviable lot,

Life's silent tenor here to know ;
To banish every thought of sin,

with
pure

and blameless eyes ; To nurse those holy thoughts within

Which fit us for the skies,
And to regenerate hearts dispense
The tranquil bliss of innocence.
We make our sorrows; Nature knows

Alone of happiness and peace;
'Tis guilt that girds us with the throes,

And hydra-pangs that never cease : Is it not so? And yet we blame

Our fate for frailties all our own, Giving, with sighs, Misfortune's name

To what is fault alone : Plunge we in sin's black flood, yet dream To rise unsullied from such stream ? V ain thought! far better, then, to shun

The turmoils of the rash and vain, And

pray the Everlasting One To keep the heart from earthly stain ; Within some sylvan home like this,

To hear the world's far billows roll; And feel, with deep contented bliss,

They cannot shake the soul, Or dim the impress bright and grand, Stamp'd on it by the Maker's hand. When round this bustling world we look,

What treasures observation there? Doth it not seem as man mistook

This passing scene of toil and care For an eternity ? As if

This cloudland were his final home;
And that he mocked the great belief

Of something yet to come?
Rears he not sumptuous palaces,
As if his faith were built in these ?
To Power he says_“ I trust in thee !"

As if terrestrial strength could turn
The avenging shafts of Destiny,

And disappoint the funeral urn:
To Pride -- Behold, I must, and can !".

To Fame-" Thou art mine idol-god!” To Gold — " Thou art my talisman

And necromantic rod!”
Down Time's far stream he darts his eye,
Nor dreams that he shall ever die.
Oh, fool, fool, fool!--and is it thus

Thou feed'st of vanity the flame ?
The great, the good are swept from us,

And only live in deed or name.
From out the myriads of the past,

Two only have been spared by Death ; And deem'st thou that a spell thou hast

To deprecate his wrath ?
Or dost thou hope, in frenzied pride,
By threats to turn his scythe aside ?

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Where are the warrior-men of old ?

Where are the realms on which they trod ? While conquest's blood-red flag unroll'd,

And man proclaim'd himself a god! Where are the sages, and their saws,

Whence wisdom shone with dazzling beams?
The legislators, and their laws,

What are they now but dreams?
The prophets, do they still forebode? -
Our fathers, where are they?with God!
Our fathers! We ourselves have seen

The days when vigour arch'd each brow;
Our fathers !!-are they aught, I ween,

But household recollections now? Our fathers !!!—nay, the very boys,

Who, with ourselves, were such at school,
When, nectar-sweet, life's cup of joys

Felt almost over-full,
Although one parish gave them birth,
Their graves are scatter'd o'er the earth!
Alas! with care we sow the wind,

To reap the whirlwind for our pains ;
On the dark-day of need to find

All proffer'd ransom Time disdains;All that was once our idle boast,

Weigh'd in the balance, dust shall be ;
Death knocks-frail man gives up the ghost-

He dies-and where is he?
Vanish'd for ever and forgot,
The place that knew him knows him not!
Ho! wanderer, ho !—eschew the wrong,

To reason turn, from error cease ;
And list the words of wisdom's tongue,

The still small tongue that whispers peace :
Withhold the heart from worldly strife-

Do good-love mercy-evil fly;
And know that, from this dream call'd life,

We wake but when we die ;-
Unto the eager to be pure
The path is straight-the palm is sure !
For ne'er hath prodigal come round,

Subdued in heart, and craving grace,
Whate'er his faults, who hath not found

Forgiveness in the Saviour's face; At contrite hearts He will not scoff

Whoever knocks an entrance wins :
Then let us, at the cross, throw off

The burden of our sins ;
And though their dye be black as night,
His blood can make-has made them white!

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THE ANTEDILUVIANS; OR, THE WORLD DESTROYED.

" It is many years," says Dr M.Henry, adopts none at all, and, after a term “ since I first entertained the design protracted far beyond the narrow span of writing a narrative poem, on some usually allotted to human life, he dies great event in the history of Man; but without his fame, and leaves no proof the selection of that event was a matter of his existence here below, except, of no slight difficulty. A good sub- perhaps, a few pieces of prose. ject, I knew, was the first step towards Such, however, will not be the fate success in any literary undertaking ; of Dr M'Henry-though he has made and I resolved to adopt none which i

a narrow escape.

6. The annals of did not feel persuaded would form a mankind,” he acutely remarks, “furrecommendation to my work.” Mrs nish many great and stirring events, Hannah and Mr Thomas Moore, and well adapted to poetic narration ; but our friend Mr John Stewart, have fur. I wanted one not only great in its nished us with elaborate pictures of character, but universal in its effects, gentlemen respectively in search of a that all men might feel an interest in wife, a religion, and a horse ; but none its details." That was a noble ambiof the three is so impressive as the Doc- tion, and proved how just an appreciator's of a poet in search of a subject. tion the Doctor had been led to make In that search his sconce has become of his powers, aspiring very early to slape_his eyes have lost their lustre the most extensive practice. “ Neither -his frame has been bent earthwards; the founding of a state,” he exultingly 80 that, while yet little more than declares, “ the achievement of a victhreescore, his semblance is that of tory, nor the overthrow of an empire, extreme old age. Even we ourselves was therefore adequate to my wishes.” look-nay feel young, in his presence; “Tantæ molis erat Romanam condere to us

gentem,” " The oldest man he seems that ever wore

a line by many thought to be magni

ficent, seemed almost mean to his This comes of devoting one's self for imaginationmany years to the selection-for the

Môvoy aede, Otos, Tinanoodsa 'Axtaños, subject of a narrative poem-of some great event in the history of man. an invocation by all felt to be sublime Their multitude is overwhelming, fell far short of the reaches of his sou and shifting as the clouds. An event and thus the lliad and the Æneid that to the eyes of imagination over appeared to the Doctor to be respectshadows the whole morning sky—at able poems in their way—" on great meridian looks but a speck-in the and stirring events, well adapted to gloaming, is gone. Among great poetic narration ”-hut because “ not events, alas ! how few good subjects !" universal in their effects," sufficient mentally exclaims the solitary, with a for the genius of a Homer and a Virgil, sigh. But a good subject is “the but inadequate to that of a M.Henry, first step towards success in any lite born in the fulness of time and for the rary undertaking ;" and till tħat is illumination of the whole race of man. taken, lack-a-daisical indeed must be “ The discovery of the New World," the aspect of the meditative poet-sit- he admits, “ was an event of great and ting by himself with his pen in his general interest; but it was already hand. Every year he grows harder poetically occupied, and therefore and harder to please—subjects not to forbidden to me by both courtesy and be sneezed at on the score of size, to policy.” America, it may be remarked his fastidious optics seem contempt as we go along, is not a new world, ibly small-mountains dwindle into but merely one of the four quarters of molehills-rivers into rills-seas into the old-and the old world went on ponds ; and the consequence is, that, well enough for the purposes of poetry, "resolved to adopt no subject which while it was supposed to consist but he does not feel persuaded would form of Europe, Asia, and Africa - yet a recommendation to his work," he do we cheerfully grant that the disco.

grey hairs."

James M‘Henry, M.D. London Cradock: 1839.

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