Flash of harness in the air,
Seen a moment like the glare

Of a sword drawn from its sheath; Thus the phantom horseman passed, And the shadow that he cast

Leaped the cataract underneath.

Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death
Passed above him. "Allahu!"
Cried he. "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man
As this Robber Kurroglou !"

HAROUN AL RASCHID. ONE day, Haroun Al Raschid read A book wherein the poet said :—

"Where are the kings, and where the

rest

Of those who once the world possessed?

"They're gone with all their pomp and show,

They're gone the way that thou shalt go.

"O thou who choosest for thy share The world, and what the world calls fair,

"Take all that it can give or lend, But know that death is at the end!"

Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head: Tears fell upon the page he read.

KING TRISANKU.

VISWAMITRA the Magician,
By his spells and incantations,
Up to Indra's realms elysian
Raised Trisanku, king of nations.

Indra and the gods offended

Hurled him downward, and, descending,

In the air he hung suspended,

With these equal powers contending,

Thus by aspirations lifted,

By misgivings downward driven, Human hearts are tossed and drifted Midway between earth and heaven.

A WRAITH IN THE MIST.

"Sir, I should build me a fortification if I came to live here."-BOSWELL'S Johnson.

ON the green little isle of Inchkenneth
Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
So brave with his targe and claymore?

His form is the form of a giant,

But his face wears an aspect of pain; Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? Can this be Sir Alan McLean?

Ah, no! It is only the Rambler,

The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth,

He would wall himself round with a fort.

THE THREE KINGS. THREE Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar ; Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

And they travelled by night and they slept by day,

For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming

was near

Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

There caskets they bore on their saddlebows,

Three caskets of gold with golden keys;

inn-yard;

For we in the East have seen his star,

And have ridden fast, and have ridden' far, To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain ;

We know of no king but Herod the Great!"

They thought the Wise Men were men insane,

As they spurred their horses across the plain,

Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,

Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,

Sent for the Wise Men and questioned

them;

And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,

And bring me tidings of this new king." So they rode away; and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn; Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,

Right over Bethlehem on the hill,

The city of David where Christ was born.

And the three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned

doors were barred,

And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,

In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,

The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human but divine.
His mother Mary of Nazareth

Sat watching beside his place of rest, For the joy of life and the terror of death Watching the even flow of his breath,

Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:

The frankincense, with its odour sweet, The gold was their tribute to a King, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,

The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,

And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's

throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great,

For they knew his malice and feared his hate,

And returned to their homes by another way.

SONG.

STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,
For those that wander they know not
where

Are full of trouble and full of care;
To stay at home is best.

PP

Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about

By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest;

O'er all that flutter their wings and fly
A hawk is hovering in the sky;
To stay at home is best.

THE WHITE CZAR.

The White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs.

Dost thou see on the rampart's height
That wreath of mist, in the light
Of the midnight moon? Oh, hist!
It is not a wreath of mist;
It is the Czar, the White Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

He has heard, among the dead,
The artillery roll o'erhead;
The drums and the tramp of feet
Of his soldiery in the street ;
He is awake! the White Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

He has heard in the grave the cries
Of his people: "Awake! arise!"
He has rent the gold brocade
Whereof his shroud was made;
He is risen! the White Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

From the Volga and the Don
He has led his armies on,
Over river and morass,
Over desert and mountain pass;

The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar!

He looks from the mountain-chain
Toward the seas, that cleave in twain
The continents; his hand
Points southward o'er the land
Of Roumili! O Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

And the words break from his lips: "I am the builder of ships,

And my ships shall sail these seas
To the Pillars of Hercules !
I say it; the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

"The Bosphorus shall be free;
It shall make room for me;
And the gates of its water-streets
Be unbarred before my fleets.
I say it; the White Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

"And the Christian shall no more
Be crushed, as heretofore,
Beneath thine iron rule,
O Sultan of Istamboul!
I swear it! I the Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!"

The outlaws of the sun.

That come to us as dreams.

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river

Linger to kiss thy feet!

O flower of song, bloom on, and make for

ever

The world more fair and sweet.

PALINGENESIS.

I LAY upon the headland-height, and listened

To the incessant sobbing of the sea

In caverns under me,

And watched the waves, that tossed and
fled and glistened,
Until the rolling meadows of amethyst
Melted away in mist.

started;

For round about me all the sunny capes
Seemed peopled with the shapes
Of those whom I had known in days
departed,

Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams
On faces seen in dreams.

Faded away, and the disconsolate shore A moment only, and the light and glory

Stood lonely as before;

And the wild-roses of the promontory Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed

Their petals of pale red.

Could re-create the rose with all its mem

bers

What bowers of rest divine;

To what temptations in lone wildernesses,

bloom,

Without the lost perfume.

loss,

The bearing of what cross!

science

Can from the ashes in our hearts once

more

The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom-flower?

"Oh, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendours,

The breath of morn, and the exultant strife,

When the swift stream of life Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders

The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap Into the unknown deep!'

And the sea answered, with a lamentation, Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, "Alas! thy youth is dead!

It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation;

In the dark places with the dead of old It lies for ever cold!"

Then said I, "From its consecrated cere

Those pages of the mystic book which hold The story still untold,

But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed,

Until "The End" I read.

THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. BURN, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold! Ah, no longer wizard Fancy

Builds her castles in the air,
Luring me by necromancy

Up the never-ending stair!
But, instead, she builds me bridges
Over many a dark ravine,
Where beneath the gusty ridges

Cataracts dash and roar unseen.
And I cross them, little heeding
Blast of wind or torrent's roar,
As I follow the receding

Footsteps that have gone before. Naught avails the imploring gesture,

Naught avails the cry of pain! When I touch the flying vesture,

'Tis the gray robe of the rain. Baffled I return, and, leaning

O'er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps the valley in its shroud. And the sounds of life ascending

Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near.