THE HAREEM.

153

The Christian Pariah, whom both sects curse, (They curse all other men, and curse each

other,)

Walks through the world, not very much the

worse

Does all the good he can, and loves his bro

ther.

CHARLES DICKENS.

THE HAREEM.

BEHIND the lattice closely laced

With filagree of choice design,Behind the veil whose depth is traced By many a complicated line,Behind the lofty garden-wall

Where stranger face can ne'er surprise, That inner world her all-in-all,

The Eastern woman lives and dies.

Husband and children round her draw
The narrow circle where she rests;-

His will the single perfect law

That scarce with choice her mind molests,

Their birth and tutelage the ground

And meaning of her life on earth, She knows not elsewhere could be found The measure of a woman's worth.

If young and beautiful, she dwells
An idol in a secret shrine,

Where one high-priest alone dispels
The solitude of charms divine.
And in his happiness she lives,
And in his honour has her own,
And dreams not that the love she gives
Can be too much for him alone.

Within the gay kiosk reclined,

Above the scent of lemon groves, Where bubbling fountains woo the wind, And birds make music of their loves, She lives a kind of faery life,

In sisterhood of fruits and flowers, Unconscious of the outer strife

That wears the palpitating hours.

And, when maturer duties rise

In pleasures' and in passions' place,

Her duteous loyalty supplies

The presence of departed grace;

THE HAREEM.

So hopes she by untiring faith

To win the bliss, to share with him Those glories of celestial youth

That time can never taunt nor dim.

155

Thus is the ever closed hareem,
As in the open western home,
Sheds womanhood her starry gleam
Over our being's busy foam.
Through latitudes of varying faith,
Thus trace we still her mission sure,
To lighten life, to sweeten death,
And all for others to endure.

Then let the moralist, who best

Honours the female heart that blends

The deep affections of the West,

With thoughts of Life's sublimest ends,
Ne'er to the Eastern home deny
Its lesser, yet not humble praise,
To guard one pure humanity
Amid the stains of evil days.

R. M. MILNES.

THE BELEAGURED OAK.

HARK! how the winds, among the giant boughs Of the old oak, are raging; to and fro

They toss his skeleton limbs, and howl the while, As if in mockery of his changed estate:

Fain would they rend his noble heart asunder, And hurl his lowering grandeur in the dust; But he defies them. Stubborn in his strength, He groans but yields not. He bethinks him too, Perchance, how soon swift Time will give him

back

The glory of his prime:-ah, then the winds
Will float around him with an altered tone,
Will sing sweet melodies the livelong day,
And nestle softly through the starry hours
Amongst his curtaining foliage;-then, a host
Of merry birds will greet him evermore

With their glad lays, till all his young green leaves,

All the quick pulses of his mighty frame,
Thrill with delight;-then, summer skies will
shower

The golden sunlight on his head by day,
The silvery dew by night, and men will rest
Safe-sheltered from the sultry noon-tide glare
Beneath his broad deep shade: so is he strong,
So, steadfast to withstand the tyranny

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS.

157

Of the rude blast. And so the peasant, doomed To toil from morn till eve on the bleak hills, Doth brave the sufferance, and with manly soul Bear up against the present weariness,

By thinking of the hour when he shall see

The light-not of the glorious stars in heaven-
But the faint ray, the beacon of his rest,
From his cottage lattice gleaming.

On his ear,

In the pauses of his labour, oft doth fall
The welcoming voice of his true-hearted wife,
Or the shrill laughter of his little ones.

He sees the ruddy blaze of his warm hearth,
Feels the sweet sunshine of the smile of home,
And cheered and strengthened by those joys to

come,

Turns, with blythe spirit, to his task again.

T. WESTWOOD.

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS.

SEVEN dreary winters gone and spent,
Seven blooming summers vanished too,
Since on an eager mission bent,
I left my Irish home and you.

How passed those years I will not say;
They cannot be by words renewed-

God wash their sinful parts away!

And blest be He for all their good.