Who walks in his robes from Jerusalem's halls?
Who comes to Samaria from Ilia's walls?

There is pride in his step-there is hate in his eye ;
There is scorn on his lip, as he proudly walks by.
"Tis thy Priest, thou proud city, now splendid and

fair;

A few years shall pass thee,-and who shall be there?

Mount Gerizim looks on the valleys that spread
From the foot of high Ebal, to Esdrelon's head;
The torrent of Kison rolls black through the plain,
And Tabor sends out its fresh floods to that main,
Which, purpled with fishes, flows rich with the dies
That flash from their fins, and shine out from their

eyes.*

How sweet are the streams: but how purer the foun

tain,

That gushes and wells from Samaria's mountain!

From Galilee's city the Cuthite comes out,

And by Jordan-wash'd Thirza, with purpose devout,

* D'Anville, by the way, says the fish from which the famous purple die was obtained were shell-fish: but this is doubted.

To pay at the altar of Gerizim's shrine,
And offer his incense of oil and of wine.
He follows his heart, that with eagerness longs
For Samaria's anthems, and Syria's songs.

He sees the poor Hebrew: he stops on the way.
-By the side of the wretched 'tis better to pray,
Than to visit the holiest temple that stands
In the thrice blessed places of Palestine's lands.
The oil that was meant for Mount Gerazim's ground,
Would better be pour'd on the sufferer's wound;
For no incense more sweetly, more purely can rise
From the altars of earth to the throne of the skies,
No libation more rich can be offer'd below,
Than that which is tendered to anguish and wo.

THE NOSEGAY.

I'LL pull a bunch of buds and flowers,
And tie a ribbon round them,

If you'll but think, in your lonely hours,

Of the sweet little girl that bound them.

I'll cull the earliest that put forth,
And those that last the longest ;

And the bud, that boasts the fairest birth,
Shall cling to the stem that's strongest.

I've run about the garden walks,

And search'd among the dew, sir ;These fragrant flowers, these tender stalks, I've pluck'd them all for you, sir.

So here's your bunch of buds and flowers,
And here's the ribbon round them;
And here, to cheer your sadden'd hours,
Is the sweet little girl that bound them.

TO A STRING

TIED ROUND A FINGER.

Et hæc olim meminisse juvabit.

THE bell that strikes the warning hour,
Reminds me that I should not linger,
And winds around my heart its power,
Tight as the string around my finger.

A sweet good-night I give, and then

Far from my thoughts I need must fling her, Who bless'd that lovely evening, when

She tied the string around my finger.

Lovely and virtuous, kind and fair,

A sweet-toned belle, Oh! who shall ring her!

Of her let bellmen all beware,

Who tie such strings around their finger.

What shall I do?-I'll sit me down,

And, in my leisure hours, I'll sing her Who gave me neither smile nor frown, But tied a thread around my finger.

Now may the quiet star-lit hours

Their gentlest dews and perfumes bring her ; And morning show its sweetest flowers To her whose string is round my finger.

And never more may I forget

The spot where I so long did linger;— But watch another chance, and get

Another string around my finger.