Smiles on past misfortune's brow,
Soft reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
A melancholy grace.

While hope prolongs our happier hour;
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
See a kindred grief pursue;
Behind the steps that misery treads,
Approaching comfort view:
The lines of bliss more brightly glow,
Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe;
And blended, form with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has toss'd
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigor lost,

And breathe, and walk again;
The meanest flow'ret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.

HYMN OF THE TURKISH CHILDREN.

Aliss Pardue.

[A recent traveller in Turkey describes an interesting ceremony witnessed by her, performed at a time of excessive drought. At dusk, the village children, walking two and two, and each carrying a bunch of flowers, drew near the cistern in their turn, and sang, to one of the thrilling melodies of the country, a hymn of supplication.']

ALLAH! Father! hear us;

Our souls are faint and weak:
A cloud is on our mother's brow,
A tear upon her cheek;

We fain would chase that cloud away,
And stay that sadd'ning tear;
For this it is to-night we pray—

Allah! Father! hear!

We seek the cooling fountain,
Alas! we seek in vain;

The cloud that crowns the mountain
Melts not away in rain;

The stream is shrunk which thro' our plain
Once glided bright and clear;

Oh! ope the secret springs again—

Allah! Father! hear!

We bring thee flowers, sweet flowers,
All withered in their prime;
No moisture glistens on their leaves;
They sickened ere their time.

Smiles on past misfortune's brow,
Soft reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
A melancholy grace.

While hope prolongs our happier hour;
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
See a kindred grief pursue;
Behind the steps that misery treads,
Approaching comfort view:
The lines of bliss more brightly glow,
Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe;
And blended, form with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has toss'd
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigor lost,

And breathe, and walk again;
The meanest flow'ret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.

HYMN OF THE TURKISH CHILDREN.

Miss Pardoe.

[A recent traveller in Turkey describes an interesting ceremony witnessed by her, performed at a time of excessive drought. At dusk, the village children, walking two and two, and each carrying a bunch of flowers, drew near the cistern in their turn, and sang, to one of the thrilling melodies of the country, a hymn of supplication.']

ALLAH! Father! hear us;

Our souls are faint and weak:
A cloud is on our mother's brow,
A tear upon her cheek;

We fain would chase that cloud away,
And stay that sadd'ning tear;
For this it is to-night we pray—
Allah! Father! hear!

We seek the cooling fountain,

Alas! we seek in vain;

The cloud that crowns the mountain
Melts not away in rain;

The stream is shrunk which thro' our plain
Once glided bright and clear;

Oh! ope the secret springs again—

Allah! Father! hear!

We bring thee flowers, sweet flowers,
All withered in their prime;
No moisture glistens on their leaves;
They sickened ere their time.

And we like them shall pass away,
Ere wintry days are near,
Should'st thou not hear us when we pray,
Allah! Father hear!

AILEEN ARTORE'S EPITAPH.

(WRITTEN BY HERSELF.)
Anon.

HERE in a little cave,

The prettiest nook of this most grassy vale,
All amid lilies pale,
That turn

Their heads into my little vault, and mourn,
Stranger, I have made my grave.

I am not all forgot:

A small hoarse stream murmurs close by my pillow,

And o'er me a green willow

Doth weep,

Still questioning the air, Why doth she sleep, The girl, in this cold spot?'

Even the very winds

Come to my cave and sigh; they often bring Rose-leaves upon their wing

To strew

O'er my earth, and leaves of violet blue;
In sooth, leaves of all kinds.