sheltered head,
at-damp on the wind.

ome of rest?
the pillowed bed?
s, the bird its nest;-
to lay his head!

reely chose,
he human race;
erty, there flows
of heavenly grace.

ughout all the bounds
command

h's failing brook.
raught cloud, at morn,
y up the vale.

Among the palms,
to the summer gale
eet songster's lay
es. Scarce is heard
e prophet looks around,
s his silvered head

Serene he sleeps,

Then, with hands enclasped eye-lids closed, he prays e desert showered, k made fountains gush. d remains; till, roused ngs, with grateful heart ss by his side ven-provided food.

tional feeling or enthusiasm among them; though there are some exceptions, where these exist in an intense degree. In the city, they appear fearful and humbled; for the contempt in which they are held by the Turks is excessive, and they often go poorly clad to avoid exciting suspicion.

Yet it is an interesting sight, to meet with a Jew, wandering, with his staff in his hand, and a venerable beard sweeping his bosom, in the rich and silent plain of Jericho, on the sides of his native mountains, or on the banks of the ancient river Kish'on, where the arm of the mighty was withered in the battle of the Lord. Did a spark of the love of his country warm his heart, his feelings must be exquisite -but his spirit is suited to his condition.

LESSON XCVI.

-that ye, through his poverty, might be rich.”—
W. RUSSELL.

Low in the dim and sultry west
Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky;
The evening's grateful hour of rest,
Its hour of feast and joy, is nigh.

But he, with thirst and hunger spent,
Lone, by the wayside faintly sinks;

A lowly hand the cup hath lent,

And from the humble well he drinks.

On the dark wave of Galilee

The gloom of twilight gathers fast,

And o'er the waters drearily

Sweeps the bleak evening blast.

The weary bird hath left the air,

And sunk into his sheltered rest;

The wandering beast hath sought his lair,
And laid him down to welcome rest.

Still, near the lake, with weary tread,
Lingers a form of human kind;

And, from his lone, unsheltered head,
Flows the chill night-damp on the wind.

Why seeks not he a home of rest?
Why seeks not he the pillowed bed?
Beasts have their dens, the bird its nest;-
He hath not where to lay his head!

Such was the lot he freely chose,

To bless, to save, the human race;
And, through his poverty, there flows
A rich, full stream of heavenly grace.

LESSON XCVII.

Elijah fed by Ravens.-GRAHAME.

SORE was the famine throughout all the bounds
Of Israel, when Elijah, by command

Of God, toiled on to Cherith's failing brook.
No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn,
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale.
The withering herbage dies. Among the palms,
The shrivelled leaves send to the summer gale
An autumn rustle. No sweet songster's lay
Is warbled from the branches. Scarce is heard

The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around,
And trusts in God, and lays his silvered head
Upon the flowerless bank. Serene he sleeps,

Nor wakes till dawning. Then, with hands enclasped
And heavenward face, and eye-lids closed, he prav
To llim who manna on the desert showered,
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush.
Entranced the man of God remains; till, roused
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart
He sees the ravens fearless by his side
Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food.

LESSON XCVIII.

Mount Sinai.-LETTERS FROM THE EAST.

LEAVING the valley of Paran, the path led over a rocky wilderness, to render which more gloomy, the sky became clouded, and a shower of rain fell. By moonlight we ascended the hills, and, after some hours' progress, rested for the night on the sand. The dews had fallen heavy for some nights, and the clothes that covered us were quite wet in the morning; but, as we advanced, the dews ceased.

Our mode of life, though irregular, was quite to a wanderer's taste. We sometimes stopped for an hour, at midday, or, more frequently, took some bread and a draught of water on the camel's back; but we were repaid for our fatigues, when we halted for the evening, as the sun was sinking in the desert, and, having taken our supper, strolled amidst the solitudes, or spent the hours in conversation till dark.

But the bivouac* by night was the most striking, when, arriving, fatigued, long after dark, the two fires were lighted. I have frequently retired to some distance to gaze at the group of Arabs round theirs, it was so entirely in keeping. They were sipping their coffee, and talking with expressive action and infinite vivacity; and, as they addressed each other, they often bent over the flame which glanced on their white turbans and drapery and dark countenances, and the camels stood behind, and stretched their long necks over their

masters.

Having finished our repast, we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks, and lay down round the fire: and let not that couch be pitie; for it was delightful, as well as romantic, to sink to rest as you looked on that calm and glorious sky, the stars shining with a brilliancy you have no conception of in our climate. Then, in the morning, we were suddenly summoned to depart, and, the camels being loaded, we were soon on the march. Jouma frequently chanted his melancholy Arab song, for at this time we were seldom disposed to converse, and were frequently obliged to throw a blanket over our cloak, and walk for some hours, to guard against the chilness of the air.

The sunsets in Egypt are the finest ; but to see a sunrise in its glory, you must be in the desert: nothing there obscures or obstructs it. You are travelling on, chill and silent, * Pron. bē-voo-ac; an encampment for a night.

your looks bent toward the east; a variety of glowing hues appear and die away again; and, for some time, the sky is blue and clear; when the sun suddenly darts above the horizon, and such a splendour is thrown instantly on the wide expanse of sand and rocks, that, if you were a Persian adorer, you would certainly break out, like the muezzin* from the minaret, in praise and blessing.

per

The way now became very interesting, and varied by several narrow, deep valleys, where a few stunted palms grew. The next morning, we entered a noble desert, lined on each side by lofty mountains of rock, many of them fectly black, with sharp and ragged summits. In the midst of the plain, which rose with a continual yet gentle ascent, were isolated rocks of various forms and colours, and over its surface were scattered a number of shrubs of a lively green. Through all the route, we had met few passengers. One or two little caravans, or a lonely wanderer with his camel, had passed at times, and given us the usual salute of "Peace be unto you." * * * *

A few hours more we got sight of the mountains round Sinai. Their appearance was magnificent; when we drew nearer, and emerged out of a deep pass, the scenery was infinitely striking, and, on the right, extended a vast range of mountains as far as the eye could reach, from the vicinity of Sinai down to Tor. They were perfectly bare, but of grand and singular form. We had hoped to reach the convent by day-light, but the moon had risen some time, when we entered the mouth of a narrow pass, where our conductors advised us to dismount.

A gentle yet perpetual ascent, led on, mile after mile, up this mournful valley, whose aspect was terrific, yet ever varying. It was not above two hundred yards in width, and the mountains rose to an immense height on each side. The road wound at their feet along the edge of a precipice, and amidst masses of rock that had fallen from above. It was a toilsome path, generally over stones, placed like steps, probably by the Arabs; and the moonlight was of little service to us in this deep valley, as it only rested on the frowning summits above.

Where is Mount Sinai? was the inquiry of every one. The Arabs pointed before to Gabel Mousa, the Mount of

*Muezzin, one of a religious order, among the Mohammedans, whose clear and sonorous voice, from the minaret, or steeple of a mosque, answers the purpose of a bell, among Christians, to call the people to morning and evening prayers.