Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of azure mixed with

I

white,

guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa; lay the golden cushion down;

Rise up; come to the window, and gaze with all the Town.

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What aileth thee, Xarifa? what makes thine eyes look down?

Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the

Town?

I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth,

Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granāda's youth. Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth

go,

Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow. Then rise, O rise, Xarifa; lay the golden cushion down; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the Town."

The Zegri Lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down,
Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the Town;
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers
strove,

And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa

wove;

One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew

nigh

That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye,

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No, no," she sighs: "bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion

down,

To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing Town."

66

Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down? Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing Town?

Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry!

He stops at Zara's palace gate-why sit ye still ?-O why ?" At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth, with tears, and was my lover.

I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing Town."

THOMAS HOOD.-Born, 1798; Died, 1845.

Thomas Hood was born in London, and served his apprenticeship as an engraver. In 1821 he began a literary life, and lived by his pen thenceforth. His humour and pathos are equally perfect, and though he never wrote any very long poem, some of his shorter ones are among the most perfect of their kind in the English language.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous1 pitch

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work! work! work!

Till the stars shine through the roof!

1 dolorous, sad.

It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work !2

"Work! work! work!

Till the brain begins to swim;
Work! work! work!

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream.

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death?
That phantom of grisly bone,

I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-

It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep,

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

2 She would rather be a slave to the Turk than a Christian woman, with such a life as hers.

"Work! work! work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,-
A crust of bread,—and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work! work! work!

From weary chime to chime,
Work! work! work!

As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed
As well as the weary hand.

"Work! work! work!

In the dull December light;

And work! work! work!

When the weather is warm and bright

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweetWith the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet;

chime, hour struck from the steeples.

For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,

And the walk that costs a meal!

“Oh, but for one short hour!
A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger and dirt,

And still with a song of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the rich,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt.”

LOVE.

Look how the golden ocean shines above
Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth;
So does the bright and blessed light of love
Its own things glorify, and raise their worth.

4 respite, here, an interval of rest.