If on his wayfare he had lost the track,
That thither he had stray'd. "Not so," replied
The gentle Prince; "but having known this place,
And its old inhabitants, I came once more

To see the lonely hut among the hills."

THE WORLD OF WOE.

WHOE'ER hath loved with venturous step to tread The chambers dread

Of some deep cave, and seen his taper's beam Lost in the arch of darkness overhead,

And mark'd its gleam

Playing afar upon the sunless stream,
Where from their secret bed,

And course unknown, and inaccessible,
The silent waters well;

Whoe'er hath trod such caves of endless night,
He knows, when measuring back the gloomy way,
With what delight refresh'd his eye
Perceives the shadow of the light of day,

Through the far portal slanting, where it falls

Dimly reflected on the watery walls:
How heavenly seems the sky;

And how, with quicken'd feet, he hastens up,
Eager again to greet

The living world and blessed sunshine there,
And drink, as from a cup

Of joy, with thirsty lips, the open air.

Far other light than that of day there shone
Upon the travellers, entering Padalon.
They too in darkness enter'd on their way;
But far before the car,

A glow, as of a fiery furnace light,

Fill'd all before them. Twas a light which made

A thing of comfort, and the sight, dismay'd, Shrunk inward from the molten atmosphere. Their way was through the adamantine rock, Which girt the World of Woe; on either side Its massive walls arose, and overhead

Arch'd the long passage; onward as they ride, With stronger glare the light around them spread; And lo! the regions dread,

The World of Woe before them, opening wide.

There rolls the fiery flood, Girding the realms of Padalon around. A sea of flame it seem'd to be,

Sea without bound;

For neither mortal nor immortal sight

Could pierce across through that intensest light.

THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH.

It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven,

That in a lonely tent had cast

The lot of Thalaba;

There might his soul develop best

Its strengthening energies;

There might he from the world

Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate,

Till at the written hour he should be found
Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot.

Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled

In that beloved solitude!

Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze

Flow with cool current o'er his cheek?

Lo! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore,

With lids half closed, he lies,

Dreaming of days to come.

His dog beside him, in mute blandishment,

Now licks his listless hand;

Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye,
Courting the wonted caress.

Or comes the Father of the Rains

From his caves in the uttermost West,
Comes he in darkness and storms?

25-2

Streams adown the roof;

When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds;
When the out-strain'd tent flags loosely:

Within there is the embers' cheerful glow,
The sound of the familiar voice,
The song that lightens toil,-

Domestic Peace and Comfort are within.
Under the common shelter, on dry sand,
The quiet camels ruminate their food;
The lengthening cord from Moath falls,
As patiently the old man

Entwines the strong palm-fibres; by the hearth
The damsel shakes the coffee-grains,

That with warm fragrance fill the tent;
And while, with dexterous fingers, Thalaba
Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet
Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig,
Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake.

Or when the winter torrent rolls

Down the deep-channell'd rain-course, foamingly,

Dark with its mountain spoils,

With bare feet pressing the wet sand,

There wanders Thalaba,

The rushing flow, the flowing roar,

Filling his yielded faculties,

A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy.

Or lingers it a vernal brook