IN RIDICULE OF ASTROLOGY.

FROM THE PERSIC OF CATEBI.

SAID Anwari, "A mighty storm shall blow,
Tear up tall trees and lay the palace low."
But when the dreadful day predicted came,
There was no breeze to vex the taper's flame.
Lord of the tempest! was the fault in thee,
Or the deep sage, star-gazing Anwari?

LAMENT FOR RAMA.

FROM THE BENGALI.

I WARN you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh,
For Rama, our Rama, to green-wood must fly;
Then hasten, come hasten to see his array,
For Ayudhya is dark when our chief goes away.

All the people are flocking to see him pass by; They are silent and sad, with the tear in their eye: From the fish in the streamlets a broken sigh heaves, And the birds of the forest lament from the leaves.

His five locks are matted, no raiment has he For the wood, save a girdle of bark from the tree; And of all his gay splendour you nought may behold, Save his bow and his quiver, and ear-rings of gold.

*This is a translation of some Bengali verses, sung by the Decoit chief Casinath, after he was taken in Nadia.

Oh! we thought to have seen him in royal array Before his proud squadrons his banners display, And the voice of the people exulting to own Their sovereign assuming the purple and crown; But the time has gone by, and my hope is despair: One maiden perfidious has wrought all my care.

Our light is departing, and darkness returns, Like a lamp half-extinguish'd and lonely it burns. Faith fades from the age, nor can honour remain, And fame is delusive, and glory is vain.

VERSES

WRITTEN AFTER BEING AT SEA FOR THE FIRST TIME,

BY EMIR MUHAMMED PEISHAWERI, AN AFFGHAN.*

FROM THE PUSHTO.

THE who first refus'd to roam

sage

Through foreign climes in quest of gain, But bade us prize the joys of home, Thought of thy dangers, fearful main !

What though the bread on shore we taste
Be purchas'd oft with toil and pain,
A loaf is better than a feast,

When purchas'd on the brackish main.

Like ocean's depths, as poets tell,

Spreads the abyss of endless pain ;

But not the deepest pit of hell

Can match thy horrors, frightful main!

Dr. Leyden's servant.

Ashore each pleasant breeze that blows
Might sooth to rest a soul in pain;
But heart and liver, torn with throes,
Leap to your lips when on the main.

When o'er your bark the tempests beat, With lightning, thunder, wind and rain, There's nought to be your winding sheet

Save the white foam that streaks the main.

Ashore e'en strangers strangers greet

In phrase polite and courteous strain;
But bitter oaths are all you meet,
When journeying on the savage main.

On shore a thousand pleasures rise
To sooth fatigue and banish pain;

But every joy and pleasure flies

From him who travels on the main.

Scenes fair, sublime, and strange and new, Arrest the eye on hill or plain :

Nought save the foamy waves you view

When journeying on the desert main.