The music ceased; I sought the bower;
I deemed some Peri there was singing
Her tales of Eden, such deep power

Those echoes on my sense were flinging.
There, on the ground, Ianthe lay,

The dark-eyed Greek, my favourite slave, Whom that stern Pirate brought away

From her far home across the wave.

She heard me not; for she was lying,
In holy contemplation lost!

Her head thrown back, her long locks flying
On the faint air; her white arms crost
So meekly,-Oh! I held my breath,
And feared lest every wind that rose

Might break that trance, more calm than death,
More beauteous than a child's repose.

At last, again her lute she swept;

1 could have listened there for years!
And while she sang, I wept, I wept,—-
What rapture there may be in tears!
'Saviour,'-for since that precious night,
Beside my slave, my mistress, seated,
I've lingered with revived delight

To hear those heavenly strains repeated:
Saviour! I bring to Thee my chain,
For heavier bonds on Thee were flung;
I bare to Thee my bosom's pain,

For bitterer pangs from Thee were wrung.

I think upon that awful hour,

When Thou, the Shepherd of the flock,
The Prince of peace, the Lord of power,
Wert the priest's scorn, the soldier's mock;
And bleeding from the Roman rod,

And scoffed at by the heartless Jew,
I hear Thee plead for them to God,—
Father! they know not what they do!
And then I lift my trembling eyes

To that bright seat, where placed on high
The great, the' atoning Sacrifice,

For me, for all, is ever nigh.

Be thou my guard on peril's brink,

Be thou my guide through weal or woe,
And teach me of thy cup to drink;
And make me in thy path to go !
For what is earthly change or loss?
Thy promises are still my own:
The feeblest frame may bear thy cross,
The lowliest spirit share thy throne!'
I turned away; but in my mind

There was a new and troubled thrill;
Dark dread, and longings undefined,
I knew not whence, perplexed me still.
I called the slave; I asked what spell
Could nerve a thing so fair and frail,

In exile, slavery, all that well

Might make a strong man's cheek grow pale.

And then she told me of the fate

That tore her from her own loved land;

And how her home was desolate

By riving axe and burning brand:

She told me of the struggle vain,
The tears, alas! as vainly shed;
The father at the altar slain,

The brother cold on glory's bed.
'T was a sad tale; but she would kneel
And pray, till pure from earth's alloy
She felt, be sure, as women feel,

But joyed as only Christians joy.
Me too she taught, how here on earth,—
Selim, dear Selim! hear me speak,—
Cares, torments, have an after birth

Of blessing to the pure and meek:

She taught me to be firm and mute,

When pleasures tempt, when sufferings try;

And gave me of that precious fruit,

Which, Selim, none can taste and die.
Doom me the dungeon or the grave;

I cannot be what I have been;
And thou wilt loathe the' Apostate slave,
The handmaid of the Nazarene.
Strike! if thou wilt;, I wait thee now ;-

Already is the blow forgiven :

Oh, would I so might die, that thou,

Dear Selim, might'st have life in heaven!'"

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY.

ASTOR, LENOX AND
TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.