THE PALACE OF SAÏD PASHA ON THE BOSPHORUS. BIRD OF THE GILDED CAGE. BY MRS. ELLIS. 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 harem 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. S. S.-VOL. III. BIRD of the Gilded Cage, thy heart is beating 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, All thou hast lost by tyranny'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, 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? N 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 A steed on shore, a barque upon the ocean, 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 liberty This yearning of the soul-Nature's own true devotion. THE EARLY DEA D. I sIT alone, in evening's fading light, Amid the gathering shades of coming night; A lovely and a loving group were we— The old halls rang with our glad songs of glee ; THE EARLY DEAD. And one by one, they pass'd from earth away, She touch❜d. Who deem'd that at the root Who dream'd, that while she sang on that soft eve, Then to her home above the crystal skies, To talk with angels, and to wait the hour And one-one dear one-was the child of song, 51 |