he called in his guards, and commanded them to dig up the pavement and remove the tomb.  It was in vain that the Muftis interposed, reprobating so great a profanation, and uttering warnings as to its consequences.  The Sultan persisted, the foundations of the tomb were laid bare, and in a cavity skillfully left among them was found—­not a burning Sultan, but a Dervise.  The young monarch regarded him for a time fixedly and in silence, and then said, without any further remark or the slightest expression of anger, “You burn?—­We must cool you in the Bosphorus.”  In a few minutes more the dervise was in a bag, and the bag immediately after was in the Bosphorus.—­De Vere’s Sketches.

* * * * *

[FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]

AN OLD HAUNT.

  The rippling water, with its drowsy tone,—­
    The tall elms, tow ’ring in their stately pride,—­
  And—­sorrow’s type—­the willow sad and lone,
    Kissing in graceful woe the murmuring tide;—­

  The grey church-tower,—­and dimly seen beyond,
    The faint hills gilded by the parting sun,—­
  All were the same, and seem’d with greeting fond
    To welcome me as they of old had done.

  And for a while I stood as in a trance,
    On that loved spot, forgetting toil and pain;—­
  Buoyant my limbs, and keen and bright my glance,
    For that brief space I was a boy again!

  Again with giddy mates I careless play’d,
    Or plied the quiv’ring oar, on conquest bent:—­
  Again, beneath the tall elms’ silent shade,
    I woo’d the fair, and won the sweet consent.

  But brief, alas! the spell,—­for suddenly
    Peal’d from the tower the old familiar chimes,
  And with their clear, heart-thrilling melody,
    Awaked the spectral forms of darker times

  And I remember’d all that years had wrought—­
    How bow’d my care-worn frame, how dimm’d my eye,
  How poor the gauds by Youth so keenly sought,
    How quench’d and dull Youth’s aspirations high!

  And in half mournful, half upbraiding host,
    Duties neglected—­high resolves unkept—­
  And many a heart by death or falsehood lost,
    In lightning current o’er my bosom swept.

  Then bow’d the stubborn knees, as backward sped
    The self-accusing thoughts in dread array,
  And, slowly, from their long-congealed bed,
    Forced the remorseful tears their silent way.

  Bitter yet healing drops in mercy sent,
    Like soft dews tailing on a thirsty plain,—­
  And ere those chimes their last faint notes had spent,
    Strengthen’d and calm’d, I stood erect again.

  Strengthen’d, the tasks allotted to fulfill;—­
    Calm’d the thick-coming sorrows to endure;
  Fearful of nought but of my own frail will,—­
    In His Almighty strength and aid secure.

  For a sweet voice had whisper’d hope to me,—­
    Had through my darkness shed a kindly ray;—­
  It said:  “The past is fix’d immutably,
    Yet is there comfort in the coming day!”