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children, and exclaimed, "That is he!"*

This must have been a proud moment for Schiller; but also an agitating, painful one; and perhaps on the whole, the latter feeling, for the time, prevailed. Such noisy, formal, and tumultuous plaudits were little to his taste: the triumph they confer, though plentiful, is coarse; and Schiller's modest nature made him shun the public gaze, not seek it. He loved men, and did not affect to des

pise their approbation; but neither did this form his leading motive. To him, art like virtue was its own reward; he delighted in his tasks for the sake of the fascinating feelings which they yielded him in their performance. Poetry was the chosen gift of his mind, which his pleasure lay in cultivating: in other things he wished not that his habits or enjoyments should be different from those of other men.

(In consequence of the length of this Memoir, we are unable to fulfil the promise, which was made last month, of concluding it in the present number. The remainder will be given in our next.)

• Doering (s. 176.)-Who adds as follows: "Another testimony of approval, very different in its nature, he received at the first production of the play in Weimar. Knowing and valuing as he did the public of that city, it could not but surprise him greatly, when a certain young Doctor S- called out to him, " Bravo, Schiller!" from the gallery, in a very loud tone of voice. Offended at such impertinence, the poet hissed strongly; in which the audience joined him. He likewise expressed in words his displeasure at this conduct; and the youthful sprig of medicine was, by direction of the court, farther punished for his indiscreet applause, by some admonitions from the police."

ON A PICTURE.

A THOUGHT Seems lying on her pouting lip-
Whether it be that Love hath 'lighted there,
And left his image; or that Dreams, long dead,
Revisit her worn brain, and bring to day
Dark shadows, such as the strong Dawn calls forth
From the eastern mountains, like the ghosts of night-
I know not.-Oh! look well on her sad cheek,
Whereon the once red rose hath wither'd quite ;-
And on her brow, like mellowing marble pale;
And in her eye, where passionate pain still lives,
And Sorrow, disinherited of tears!

B.

SONNET.

THE RETURN OF TIME.

HAVE ye not mark'd the hurrying moments rise,
Like hasty heralds from the silent dead,

Scarce telling that their fellows hence have fled,

Ere each fleet messenger retires and dies?

Ev'n thus each hour, month, year, the place supplies
Of others, unto Death's dominions sped,
Where Ages with Eternity are wed,

To live and multiply anew! Time flies

With Death-flies onward and returns again-
Bearing Life, Youth, and Beauty, to the tomb!
And this shall last until the hour of doom:

When, agitated like the billowy main,

The world shall heave forth, from her gorged abyss,
The dead, to grasp eternal woe or bliss.

L.

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THE POWER OF BEAUTY.

A SYRIAN TALE.

Nor far from the banks of the Orontes, and aloof from any other habitation, stood a Syrian cottage, where dwelt a peasant, his wife, and only son. It was the daily employment of the latter to lead the few sheep of his father to the hills, where the wild and sweet notes of his Syrian pipe often cheered the traveller on his way: the caravans travelling from Damascus to Bagdad sometimes passed by, and purchased of his father's flock; and nothing could exceed the joy of Semid when he heard the camel bell, and the mournful chaunt of the Arab driver, and saw the long train of the caravan winding up the mountain path. He would then listen with delight to the tales of these travellers of the desert, and longed to accompany them on their way; but when he returned to the cottage at night, when the fire was kindled on the rude floor, the unleavened cake baked in the embers, and the milk, fruit, and honey from the hills, formed their repast; when he heard his parents say, in words of affection, that he was their only support and joy, he reproached himself for having ever cherished the thought of leaving them. But one night there arose a violent storm; the Orontes overflowed its banks, the blast came wild and furious from the desert beyond, and moaned through the lonely group of fig-trees around the cottage with a sound as of destruction. Amidst the darkness and the beating of the rain was heard a voice of distress that seemed to implore admission and shelter. Semid arose, and on opening the door, a venerable man entered, whose green turban and toilworn features proclaimed him to be a Hadgi, or pilgrim from Mecca; his beard descended nearly to his girdle, and overcome by fatigue and the violence of the storm, he threw himself on the coarse carpet which was spread for him, and hung over the blazing fire; and when he had drunk of the coffee presented him, his faded looks brightened with joy, and at last he broke silence, and gave the blessing of a Hadgi, and adored the goodness of Allah. The storm was AUG. 1824.

hushed, the moon-light came through the lattice window of the cottage: the pilgrim knelt, and folding his hands on his breast-he prayed, fixing his eyes on earth, with intense devotion; he thrice pressed his forehead on the ground, and then stood, with his face to Mecca, and invoked the prophet.

Semid gazed on the stranger-he could be no wandering dervise; his aspect and manner were far superior to the poverty of his dress, and on the hem of his garment was embroidered that passage from the Koran, fit only for the good.-The next and several following days the Hadgi was still a welcome guest; he had been a long and restless traveller, and when Semid was seated by his side in the rude portico of the cottage, as the sun was setting on the Orontes, and the wild mountains around, and he had given the chibouque into his hands, he drank in with insatiable delight every tale of wandering and peril on the wave and the wilderness which the other related. At last the day of his departure came, and Semid wept bitterly as he clasped the hand of the stranger, who, during his short stay, had become deeply attached to him, and who now turned to the father and mother, and raised his right hand to heaven, and attested his words by the name of Allah. "I am alone," he said, "in the world; the shaft of death has stricken from my side relative and friend; as I have beheld the Euphrates rush on its solitary course through the wild, that once flowed through the glory and light of the bowers of Eden. Yet suffer your son to cheer and brighten my way, and I will be to him both parent and counsellor; he shall partake of my wealth, and when three years have passed over our heads, he shall return to bless your declining years." It was long before the parents of Semid would consent to this proposal, but at last the prospect of their son's advancement, and of his return, endowed with knowledge and wealth, wrung a reluctant assent.— The sun's rays had not penetrated through the grove of fig-trees that

M

shadowed his home, when the youth and his companion directed their course across the plain, and on the third day entered the thick forests which terminated it, sleeping at night beneath the trees around the fire they had kindled. The toil of the way was lightened by the converse of the moslemin, which was full of instruction and delight, yet mingled with much that was strange and wild, of genii, the power of evil and good spirits, and the marvellous events he had met with in his varied path. But he knew not that that path was so soon to be closed. One night, overcome by fatigue, and the excessive heat of the way, they had sunk to sleep in the wood, without taking the precaution of kindling a fire.-In the middle of the night Semid was awakened by a piercing shriek, and hastening to his companion, found he had been bitten by a serpent, whose wound was mortal; already the poison began to circulate through his veins, his limbs trembled, his face was flushed with crimson, and his eyes had a fatal lustre. He clasped the hand of the youth convulsively in his own, and pressed it to his heart. "O my son," he said, "Allah has called me at the midnight hour, and the angel of death has put his cup to my lips ere I thought it was prepared; and thou art left solitary like a bride widowed on her marriage morn:-thy friend and guide torn from thee, what will be thy fate?and the wealth that would have been thine will now be scattered amongst strangers." He paused, and seemed lost in thought the young Syrian supported his dying head on his knees, and his tears fell fast on the face that was soon to be shrouded from him for ever. Suddenly the old man drew forth from his bosom a memorial of his affection, that was indeed indelible, and fixing his look intensely on his friend, "Semid," he said, "I have hesitated whether to consign to you this ring, and darkness is on my spirit as to the result. Place this ring on your finger, and it will invest you with surpassing beauty of feature and form, which, if rightly used, will conduct you to honour and happiness; but if abused to the purposes of vicious indulgence, will make sorrow and remorse your portion through life" He fainted, but

reviving once more, "Turn my face to Mecca," he cried, "to the tomb of my prophet ;" and striving to fix his eyes on the east, "I come, O loved of Allah-the dark realms of Eblis shall not be my home, nor El Arat have any terrors for me: thrice have these feet compassed the Caaba, where rest thy ashes; thrice to arrive there have they trod the burning desert, where thy promises were sweeter to me than the fountain or the shadow-receive me to thy Paradise!"

He sank back, and died. All night the Syrian boy mourned loudly over the body of his benefactor; and the next day watched over it till sun-set, when with difficulty he dug a rude grave and interred it.-Early on the second morning he pursued his way through the forest, and the sun was hot on the plain beyond, ere he advanced from its gloomy recesses.He had placed the ring, of a green colour and without ornament, on his finger, and already amidst his grief for the loss of his friend, his heart swelled with vanity at the many advantages it had given him.-Oppressed with the heat he drew near to where a fountain gushed forth beneath a few palm-trees on the plain, and formed a limpid pool; he stooped to drink, but started back at beholding the change a few hours had made. The sun-burnt features of the shepherd boy had given place to a countenance of dazzling fairness and beauty; the dark ringlets clustered on the pure forehead over still darker eyes, whose look was irresistible; his step became haughty as he pursued his way, and saw each passenger fix on him a gaze of admiration, and he glanced with disdain on his coarse peasant's dress.

The sun was setting on the splendid mosques and gilt minarets of the city of Damascus, now full in view, when a numerous train of horsemen drew near; it was Hussein, the son of the Pacha, returning from the course. Struck at the sight of one so meanly clad, yet so extremely beautiful, he stopped and demanded whence he came and whither he was journeying; on Semid replying he was friendless and a stranger, he bade him follow in his train, and added that on the morrow he should become one of his own guards. The next day, in his military habit, and rich arms, and

mounted on a fine Arab courser, he rode by the Prince's side. Each day now saw some improvement in the shepherd of the Orontes; possessing by nature a quick imagination, and an enterprising spirit, he made a rapid progress in the accomplishments of the court of Damascus.-Speedily promoted by Hussein, whose favourite he had become, and admired by all for the exquisite personal advantages he possessed; he joined with those of his own rank in every amusement and pleasure the city afforded. Sometimes they passed the hours in the superb coffee-houses, where the fountain spouted forth a lofty column of water, and the coolness and incessant murmur were delightful amidst the sultry heats or on one of the light pleasure-houses built on piles in the midst of the rivers which rushed through the city, they sat at night on soft cushions, and coffee, sherbet, and other luxuries were served; and while the moon-light, mingled with the glare of lamps, fell on the scene, they listened to the music and gazed on the voluptuous dance of the Alméh girls. Amidst scenes like these the memory of his father and mother, the lonely cottage on the river's bank, his few sheep, and his mountain solitudes, grew more and more faint; all love for simplicity and innocence of life and heart was lost irretrievably, and the senses were prepared to yield to the first seduction. The favorite mistress of Hussein, a beautiful Circassian, had one morning, while walking beneath the sycamoretrees by the river's side, seen Semid playing at the jerrid with the prince, and his uncommon loveliness of countenance and noble figure had inspired her with a violent passion. One day, as he sat beneath the portico of a coffee-house, one of those women approached him whose employment it is to sell nosegays of flowers to the Turkish ladies; she drew one from her basket, and put it into his hand; the various flowers were so arranged as to convey a message of love from that lady, the fame of whose charms filled the whole city. Deeply flattered as the heart of Semid was at this discovery, and filled with intense curiosity to behold such perfections, he still hesitated; gratitude to his benefactor Hussein; the memory of the lessons of piety so often received

from his parents; the dying words of the pilgrim of Mecca; all conspired to deter him. But, to be the object of the love of such a woman, and solicited to behold her!-the thought was irresistible. Night came, and the last call to prayer of the Muezzin from the minaret had ceased, when, disguised, he climbed the lofty wall that encircled the harem of the prince, and, gliding through the garden, was admitted by one of the eunuchs, who conducted him through several apartments into the one that was the abode of the favourite. The moon-light came faintly through the windows of richly stained glass, and showed indistinctly the gold characters from the Koran inscribed beneath the exquisite perfumes which filled the air, and the lulling murmur of the fountain gushing on the rich marble, stole on the senses with seductive power-the upper part, or divan, of the Serai was covered with the costly silks, carpets, and brocades of Persia and Damascus, with numerous sofas, cushions, and superb mirrors-and at the end of all, where the small cluster of silver lamps threw their light on an ottoman of crimson velvet and gold, reclined the young and haughty Circassian. She wore a blue Cashmere turban, clasped on her high and fair forehead by a wreath of diamonds, and beneath fell the raven ringlets of her hair, which were just suffered to rest on the right shoulder-the vest that confined the bosom, as if to contrast with its exquisite whiteness, was of black, and this was circled by a golden girdle-her right arm, the tunic thrown back, lay moveless like a wreath of snow on the dark ottoman, and on the left arm languidly rested her beautiful cheek, whose natural paleness was now flushed-and the drooping eye-lash tinged with surmeh, could not shroud the glance that flashed irresistibly from beneath, while the full and crimson lips, unlike the Grecian outline, were just parted by an unconscious smile at sight of the beloved form that stood before her. Dazzled at the sight of such excessive beauty, Semid stood motionless, unable to advance, or withdraw his eyes from the Circassian, who rose from her reclining posture, and waved her hand for him. to be seated on the ottoman beside

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