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The first objects which present themselves on ascending the Bosphorus, are the palaces of the several members of the Imperial family, hanging, as it were, over the water. The windows of these apartments, which have beneath them a narrow quay, are dense and impervious to all view, except by one small aperture, to which the inmate of the barem applies her eye when she wishes to contemplate the busy and living picture which is continually before her, and which is rendered more attractive by the hurry of the rapids below, over which vessels are with difficulty towed by ropes fastened to the shoulders of men on shore. One of these apartments has been painted couleur de rose, to indicate, to all who look upon it, the happy nuptial state of him who dwells within.

Bird of the Gilded Cage, thy heart is beating

To hear the stir of that gay world below,
Where busy throngs in lively groups are meeting,

And light barks come and go,

And swift the rapids flow,
With dancing light the brighter sunbeams greeting.

Bird of the Gilded Cage, the scent of flowers

Comes floating through thy lattice-window faint,
Bringing sweet tidings of thine early hours ;

While memory comes to paint,

All thou hast lost by tyranuy's restraint,
All thou didst once enjoy in thine own sunny bowers.

Hark! 'tis the dash of busy oars thou hearest;

Hark! 'tis the ripple of the foaming tide.
Hush thee to rest; a jewell'd wreath thou wearest,

Thou art a sultan's bride,
Nursed in his halls of pride,

His slaves are at thy side ;
What ails thee that a brow of gloom thou wearest,

His throne beside ?

S. 8. - VOL. III.


Rose-tints around thy palace-home are glowing;

Azure and gold adorn its courts within ; Airs of soft perfume o'er thy cheek are blowing;

Gauzy and light and thin,

Letting the sunshine in, Curtains of costly silk around thy couch are flowing.

Art thou not blest ? Oh give me but the motion

Of the wild bird along the pathless sky;
A steed on shore, a barque upon the ocean,

A wing, that I might fly;
An oar, that I might try

To lull myself to rest, or die !
For I am weary of this wild emotion,

These tears, that cannot buy

One hour of libertyThis yearning of the soul — Nature's own true devotion.

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And one by one, they pass’d from earth away,
In the sweet morning-time of their spring-day;
The heat of noon-tide, and the gloom of night
Ne'er tired, nor shaded o'er their eyes of liglit.
The first who left our sunny, calm abode,
Who burst from mortal ties to dwell with God,
The beautiful! the stately! the bright queen
Of every household joy, and festal scene,
Like a lost star, departed, as her lute
She touch'd. Who deem'd that at the root
Of this our fairest, proudest flower, decay
Was stealing silently her life away?
Who dream'd, that while she sang on that soft eve,
Her spirit pined the glad green earth to leave ?
Eve came again—bow'd was her radiant head !
Swiftly she pass’d to join the Early Dead !

Then to her home above the crystal skies,
Another sister hied, while from her eyes
The light of merry childhood scarce had fled,
And ere one shower of grief was o'er her shed !
Gently she faded ; on, from day to day,
Ling'ring, till like a blighted bud she lay,
Serene and lovely; lovelier to the last;
A fair white rose-bud, fall’n without a blast;
Shedding its pale leaves on the grassy ground,
But leaving its sweet scent on all around.
Oh! how she smiled, as every failing breath
Told her of quickly-coming, Early Death !
'Twould be so sweet, she said, to dwell on high,
Amid the glories of the starry sky;
To talk with angels, and to wait the hour
When all the rest to that immortal bower
Should be transplanted. Not a tear she shed,
As she too pass'd to join the Early Dead.

And one-one dear one—was the child of song,
Bright genius o'er her had its halo flung,
Deep and high thoughts that gifted one inurn’d,
She was a lamp that but too swiftly burn'd:
Quiet is now that once quick-heaving breast !
It is enough—she, too, hath found her rest.

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