Imatges de pÓgina
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Men wrote their names, and some I knew,

And sigh'd to find them written there-
That wings were given to such a crew,
To brush the strange mysterious hue

From scene that was so fair,
And make it but the lounging seat
Of townsfolk scorch'd by summer-heat,
Whose march drives Nature to retreat,

And feeling to despair.
Lake Constance ! 'Twas a lovely sight

To pass it by the rising moon,
Where not a mountain marr'd the light
Of the least star that lit the flight

Of dew-distilling June !
And the boat moved in silence on,
Like a still ghost, while round it shone
A radiance, as if all had gone

With Heaven's especial boon;
And I beheld thy stars unfold,

Each sister of the Pleiad host,
Intense as moments when I told
How yet another nymph of old

The sage's vigil cross'd;
And how the envious band's decree
Expell’d her to the earth, to be
Fancied of all, as felt by me,

The loveliest and the lost.
And that old town* with thundering gate,

And silent streets that shake and bow
loved it! for 'twas desolate
And green with nettles, as the fate

Of hearts has been ere now.
Why was it so ?-It had been thrown
On others' power, and not its own-
And if it sank and fear'd to groan,

I marvel not-dost thou ?
Not far there was a hallow'd mead,

A stone once black with sulphury scaith,
Which put to test the martyr's creed,
And Jeft a tomb, for kings to read

A record of their faith!
Thrice happy they who slumber'd there ! +
They had their flames, but no despair,
And gain’d their hopes, which some shall ne'er,

Unless like them, in death!
On, on! we lose the world at last,

And stand upon the white Tyrol,
And gaze upon the whirlwind blast
That sweeps fair Freedom's eyrie past,

And mingles with her dole;
That dole because her eagle brood,
Borne down from snowy solitude,
And link'd with birds of meaner mood,

Forget their mountain soul.

Constance ; which was once a free-town, but now belongs to the Austrians. † John Huss, and Jerome of Prague, who were burnt there, after having received a guarantee for their safety from the Emperor Sigismund.

There, by a cabin skyward placed,

As it would Heaven's protection woo,
The warrior-shepherd's march we traced,
And mark'd him battling for the waste,

Where nought but glory grew;
And thou didst think that peasant's bride
Might tend her flocks with haughtier pride
Than she had felt in empire wide

With him he served too true.
0, Francis ! round thy downy bed

Doth never nightmare come to shake
The plume which mountain eagle shed,
And Freedom placed on Hofer's head,

To bid thee lesson take?
Or dost thou wake, and watch dismay'd
At forfeit faith and blood betray'd,
And strive with subject-slaves to shade

The blush for honour's sake?
Away, away!—'tis dark and wild

By Via Mala's rock-bound track,
And crags and clouds promiscuous piled
Scowl where the glacier's howling child

Seems cradled on the rack,
And scourge it with the rooted larch,
Whilst many a strange fantastic arch
Leaps midway o'er in imp-like march,

To bear me on its back.
Far down I see a smoky mist,

Far up a lonely monk's retreat,
Where oft at midnight they who list
May hear the sound of one who kiss'd

No cross, but lips as sweet-
May hear the wail of infant weak-
A mother's accents, mild and meek,
And then behold with dying shriek

A phantom pass their feet.
I stand within that

savage

cell
And think of thee, as when I press'd
Thy forehead with my last farewell,
And my heart seem'd to beat its knell

Upon thy guileless breast:
I feel we could have dwelt e'en here
So sweetly, that yon shade of fear
Had deem'd itself in Heaven's own sphere,

And tranquil sunk to rest.
E'en let me dream, as that had done,

Oblivious of the world of woe,
And think that like this Alpine sun
Our lives a course unchequer'd run,

Whilst clouds are far below:
E'en let me love the storm's alarms
That bind thee closer to my arms,
And swear that Earth, with all its swarms,

Such friends can never know!

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A STORY OF THE PLAGUE AT CONSTANTINOPLE.

In one part of Europe the Cholera still adds its horrors to those of war, and though England is mercifully preserved from its visitation, the voice of alarm does not cease to be heard among us—“ the cry is still, it comes," and the talk is everywhere of fevers, and infections, and mortal maladies. My last paper was on Quarantine, whence the transition to the plague must seem easy and natural.

Among the friends I acquired during my residence at Constantinople, there was nobody I valued so much and with whom I passed so much time as Mr. C. Z-, a native of the place, descended from an Armenian family, and informed by travel and the constant society of the better class of Franks that frequent Pera. The following details I gleaned almost entirely from him, and he is himself the fond, devoted father---the hero of his own tale. Madame W— his daughter, had been some two or three years married to an Englishman attached to our Consular establishmeni at Constantinople, and was recently the happy mother of a lovely infant. A father might be partial, but his praises of his daughter's beauty, and talent, and goodness of heart, I have often heard confirmed by others, and all who had known Madame W— seemed to preserve the most affectionate and admiring recollections of her. She must, indeed, have been one of those gentle beings we occasionally hear of, in our passage through life, whose names are never mentioned without eliciting emotion and melancholy regret—who seem to be a portion of the heart of every speaker, and of whom it is constantly said, “Ah! if you had known her!” One evening that Madame Wwas entertaining her sisters and other near relations and some friends at Pera, she felt of a sudden seriously indisposed. The plague was known to be in Constantinople, but it was not raging to any great extent, and had scarcely crossed the Golden Horn to the Christian suburb. So little did the party apprehend that the dread malady was among them, that they nearly all felt her pulse, and came in the closest contact with her. She cut in for a game at whist, and when the family party broke up, she shook hands with all her friends, and embraced her father and her sisters. That night her fever increased, and the next morning as daylight broke into the room, and allowed her to see, Madame W discovered a small, dark-red spot about the joint of the hand. She knew the fatal token, but she said not a word to her husband, who was sleeping at her side ; she took her little girl that was lying on her bosom, and placed it in a cradle, and then waited until such time as she could send for her father.

When Mr. C. Z entered the room she was alone. She mournfully held up her hand, and he saw with horror the plague spot on her wrist. Still, however, there was a hope that it might not be the plague-a feeble hope indeed, but it served to cheer him, as he took the sad road to the dwelling of one of those professors who are called Plague Doctors, and who by constant practice are supposed to be able to detect the malady in its earliest stages. The doctor soon came to her bedside, and filled the hearts of all the household with con

sternation by declaring that Madame W- had indeed the plague. No sooner had the word passed his lips than every body turned to flee—the servants, who were Christians of Pera, and far from feeling the indifference to the plague and the conviction of fatalism common to the Turks, would not stay another moment in the house, and her husband, who was almost petrified with fear, was among the first to leave the perilous spot. As the noble-hearted woman, who had borne the doubt and the conviction that she was attacked by the fatal malady, with the courage of a heroine, saw this desertion, and that her infant daughter too was taken away, her strength of heart failed her, and while burning tears came to her eyes, she said to her father who stood close to her, hanging over her with an expression of anguish on his countenance—“ Tout le monde m'abandonne, mon pere ! mais vous ne m'abandonnerez pas.Jamais ! ma fille,was the answer of the parent, who had not a thought to give to his own safety, but who, as he spoke, embraced his darling, suffering child, and caught her infectious breath on his lips. By this time the house was cleared by all save the father and daughter, the plague doctor, and an old Turk, who, fortified by the predestinarian doctrines of the Koran, volunteered his services and attendance on the sick, whom no Frank in Pera would have approached for a mine of wealth—whom husband, sisters, brother-all the nearest and dearest connexions abandoned—all

, but her good old father! When the plague-doctor retired, the house was placed in quarantine, nobody entering its doors but people supplying the objects that might be wanted by its inmates from a distance. No condition can well be imagined more calamitous than this—to see oneself avoided by one's fellow creatures to feel that to approach a human being would be a crime—to watch the rapid progresses of a disease that so rarely fails to kill, in the person of one dearer to us than all the world beside—to count the dull hours as they pass on, and to know almost to a certainty that in so many hours the dear object of all one's solicitude will be rendered insane by the scorching fever, and insensible to one's attentions and caresses—in so many hours more will be a discoloured corpse—in so many more the food of worms, of loathsome worms, though that flesh is of our flesh, and fair, and dear, and most precious to our hearts and eyes !

In declaring Madame W- L's disorder to be the plague, the doctor had remarked that it did not seem the most virulent class of that disorder—that it was rather what he termed “ la peste benigna,” but unfortunately before the malady was ascertained, she had been copiously bled by a European practitioner. I say unfortunately, because it seems to be established that nothing is more prejudicial in plague cases than the use of the lancet, and her poor father was always of opinion that had she not been bled she would have recovered.

When the bubo broke out on her arm, her devoted parent bathed it with his own hands, and even when it had burst, entirely regardless of his own life or death, he dressed the festering, revolting wound: whilst she was burning with the most horrid fever, and writhing with pain, he often supported her in his arms, and her aching head would recline on his bosom, and her breath, hot as the

vapour from an oven, would mingle with his. But yet he caught not the infection.

Frequently did the affectionate young woman express her fears that her dear father would be seized with the fatal disorder—frequently did she entreat him earnestly to leave her to her fate ; and as long as she retained her reason she testified her sense of his truly paternal affection and devotedness in words whose recollection seldom failed to make my stout-hearted friend's eyes overflow with tears. But it was most piteous when the heat that raged at her brain destroyed her fine intellect, and she remained either mute as in a lethargy, or uttered words void of meaning, or sentences of the wildest and most confused import. The predominant object in the mind and heart of the young mother was her infant daughter, and at times she would implore in a tone the most piteous, that they would restore her child. At other moments she would clasp her arms over her scorching breast, as though she held the little cherub in her arms, and her parched lips would move as though she blessed it. Sometimes her haggard eye, as it glared across the apartment, seemed to be filled with imaginary objects, and she would smile or frown as these fantasies of her diseased brain were agreeable or otherwise. Meanwhile her afflicted father, whom now she could not even know, much less recognize his fond unwearying cares of her, scarcely left her bed-side for a moment, but sat sometimes with her burning hand in his, sometimes gazing fixedly on the form of his darling daughter that might almost be seen consuming itself away like a statue of wax before a glowing fire. The old Turkish menial went and came, and supplied him with that food which he could hardly be said to taste in the bitterness of his grief, and which he scarcely would have thought of himself. My friend always described the nights he thus passed, as something most awful. Every thing would be still in Pera and the adjoining suburbs of Tophana and Galata--so still, so silent the sick room, that the breathing of his dying child was dreadfully audible; and when this silence was interrupted by the barking of some of those innumerable dogs that stray about Constantinople without any master, and with whatever home the corners of the streets, or the ruins of houses may afford them; or when the Beckdji, or Turkish watchman, going his round, struck at intervals the stone pavement of the streets with his club, which is always heavily loaded with an iron ferule, and the hollow noise echoed through the long, narrow, dark street of Pera, the sounds only served to render deeper still, and more grave-like, the solemn silence that succeeded them. The tall white minarets of the mosque of Tophana were immediately below the house, and visible from Madame W—'s chamber. They rose stark in the deep blue sky of night, like sheeted ghosts, and in addition to the sounds i have mentioned as interrupting at intervals the solemn silence, there proceeded from them, at the Moslemin's hours of prayers, the low, impressive chaunt of the Muezzin, which, and more particularly at the midnight Ezann,* at the stilly hour of darkness and sleep, broke on

* The call to prayer.

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