Music at Sca.

WHEN moonlight sleeps upon the main, And silence o'er the sea,

How sweetly falls some melting strain Of wild soft melody.

Old memories of hopes and tears
Its mournful notes renew,

All those beloved in early years,
The beautiful and true.

And thus within the spirit's hall
That long hath roamed afar,
Some whispered echoes softly fall,
E'en like a guardian star,

Bidding the wandering soul to seek,
In Nature's holy breast,

For early thoughts, serene and meek,
And they will give her rest.

ARAB LEGEND OF THE

Building of the Fyramids.

THE genii king held court one day
In Egypt's desert lone,

Where the wild lions seek their prey
And hungry jackals moan.

He was a demon bold and proud,
That spirit of the air;

He sighed to raise some work that could
With God's great works compare.

His seat was on an arid rock

Above the scorching plain,
And thither did his subjects flock,
A grim and grisly train.

Then to them all his stern commands
In gloomy voice were given :

To raise up mountains on the sands,
Whose tops should reach to heaven.

Away on dusky wings they hied,
To do their chief's behest;

And gathered stones from every side,
North, south, and east, and west.

O'er wild Sahara's plains they came,
And Nubia's sunburnt rocks,
And from dark Etna's hill of flame
Shouldering gigantic blocks.

But many an effreet dropped his pile Where rapid water flows,

And, 'mid the vexed waves of the Nile Thence cataracts arose.

Wearily toiled these genii strange,
And in one night upreared,

In mockery of a mountain range,
The Pyramids appeared.

Not long to their wild king was given In his proud halls to reign,

For Jesus came, the King of Heaven, To Egypt's fertile plain.

And before Him, the Lord of all,
The demons cowered and fled,
Shuddering to see their idols fall
Before His infant tread.

Only at midnight's hour is heard, Sadder than night wind's moan, And wilder than the scream of bird, Or roar of lion lone,

A sigh unearthly, 'mid those walls Where echo voices cling:

'Tis he doth wail for his lost halls, The hapless genii king.

The Mountain of the Bird.

AN ARAB LEGEND.

THERE was of old an ancient king,

A monarch good and mild,

But to his greatest sorrow

He had no little child.

His kind soul yearned for some young heart

To train up for his own :

For, 'mid his worldly grandeur,
He felt so all alone.

And after long and anxious thought,
At length he fixed on one,
Whom he thought all that he desired,
His favourite steward's son.

He taught him arts of peace and war,
And had him trained with care,

And gave him titles of a prince,
The kingdom's nearest heir.