hymn. The moment has arrived for evening
prayer. A priest advances in front of the long
lines, and faces them. The soldiers uncover in
the ranks. All heads are bowed. A solemn
silence ensues, broken only by the heavy,
monotonous voice of the officiating priest. At last the
prayer is finished. The soldiers recover their arms
with a clang, which seems to roll on into infinity.
All is then again silence. The signal is awaited
which is to dismiss the soldiers for the night. The
last gleaming rim of the sun's disc smiles upon the
horizon of the plain. At that moment the deep
boom of a cannon comes thundering from the
centre of the wood through the trees. The band
strikes up a national air. The regiment is
marched off the ground up one of the main
avenues. The others, to the right and left, are
gradually disappearing, like long serpents, into the
recesses of the wood. The heavy tramp of the
men continues to resound from all sides long
after they have been lost to sight. Later the
whole air is filled with the usual hum of the
camp: and that at last is gradually stilled. The
soldiers are gone to their tented holes to rest:
the sentinels and outstanding pickets are alone
duskily visible on the belt, or further on the
plain, as the darkness gathers around.

I retreat with my friends to another of the
picturesque cottages of the military colony. The
tea-table is set out under the verandah. The
never-failing meerschaum is in the mouth of
every member of the party. Bewildered
fireflies now and then strike against the lamp globe.
The moon has risen on the other side of the
camp, and, by degrees, sheds its still light in
patches on the verandah floor. The garden is on
the skirts of the wood. The white tents glimmer
through the trees; the plain is flooded with
moonlight beyond. Wit and sentiment have
each their turn in the desultory conversation of
the jovial party. Hark! the sounds of a piano
from a neighbouring cottage ornée— the notes of
an Italian air or French romance admirably sung.
The young Russian officers, who generally boast
of many superficial accomplishments, are
frequently excellent musicians. I can almost fancy
I have wandered into the land of fairy-romance,
or ask myself, with wonder, " Where am I? Is
this an enchanted land of peace? Is it an
embodied page from a Florian tale of Bergerie? Is
it a dramatic scene got up for the amusement of
the evening? Is it a 'fancy' colony in some
civilised back wood?"

This is a dream of days when order reigned in
Warsaw, or seemed to reign. In a few months
confusion, terror, bloodshed, wrath were raving,
where, to the careless eye, and even, it would
seem, to the most watchful eyes that served the
ever-watchful Russian rule, all bore the outward
semblance of splendour, security, and peace.
The time was to come, in a few months, when
order would reign at Warsaw, according to the
proclamation of stern masters, once again— the
order of suspicion, dread, and stifled groans.
That time of order has lasted long and weary
years. When will the time come when Europe
can acknowledge that those bitter words, " Order
reigns at Warsaw," are really and indeed a
truth?

TWO SEAS.

I

A MARINER by tempest crost
Lay struggling with the wave;
His one sole hope— all else was lost—
His hoarded gold to save.

Slung from his neck— a weary weight—
His precious charge he bore;
His failing strength, at war with fate,
Could bear no feather more.

But not against his life alone
Uprose the breakers wild;
A woman, on the billows thrown,
Held up her drowning child.

"Save her!" she cried, " in mercy save!"
As through the surf she rolled:
He heard; and cast beneath the wave
His prize of Indian gold.

Fearless he breasts the tropic storm
With limbs by love new strung,
While round his neck, all soft and warm,
Two infant arms are flung.

He hails the land— the blessed land!
He drinks its spicy air;
He strains to reach its coral strand,
He greets it with a prayer.

Vainly the angry tempest raved,
His feet have touched the goal;
And, with his living burthen saved,
He stands— a rescued soul!

II.

The child has lived, bloomed, loved, and died.
Alone the old man lies:
Another sea, of stiller tide,
Steals o'er his closing eyes.

Glows now for him no tropic light,
But, where life's waters freeze,
The glory of the Polar night—
The calm of Arctic seas!

His hard-earned gold beneath the deep
Lies hid;— but where is she,
His God-gift, whom the star-worlds keep,
His daughter of the sea?

Where cloud-waves foam the rippled skies,
Touched by the golden day,
An angel form in angel guise
Floats up the liquid way.

He follows, hushed in rapt delight,
Of dread and death beguiled,
She, swimming slow with pinions bright,
He, clinging like a child.