Oh, weeping sister, in thy lone home dwelling,
  When thy fond heart will sink, thy spirits pine,
Look up! and know, where angel hymns are swelling,
  There swell the tones that blended oft with thine,
And deem thy soul approaches Heaven in prayer
More nearly, that a kindred voice is there.

Perchance, sad mother, thy fond love is dearer
  To thy fair child than when the restless wave
Divided you—her gentle spirit nearer
  Than in that distant land. Dream not an exile's grave
Retains her. No! Still present, though so far,
Her eyes may watch thee now, from some calm star.

And thou, poor lonely babe, although no other
  May fill for thee her place beneath the sun,
Yet she shall guard thee, as no earthly mother
  With all the might of human love, had done;
Still shall watch over thee with love as deep,
With eyes that change not, slumber not, nor weep.

A LIFT IN A CART.

WE left Dresden in the middle of July, a
motley group of five: a Frenchman, an
Austrian, two natives of Lübeck, and myself;
silversmiths and jewellers together; all of us
duly viséd by our several ambassadors through
Saxon Switzerland, by way of Pirna, on to
Peterswald. The latter is the frontier town
of Bohemia, and forms therefore the entrance
from Saxony into the Austrian empire.

At dusk we were on the banks of the Elbe,
at the ferry station near Pillnitz, the summer
dwelling of the King of Saxony. Having
crossed the broad stream, we leapt joyously
up the steep path that led into a mimic
Switzerland; a country of peaks, valleys and
pine trees, wanting only snow and glaciers.
For three days we wandered among those
wild regions; now scaling the bleak face of a
rock; now stretched luxuriously on the
purple moss, or gathering wild raspberries
by the road side. From the abrupt edge of
the overhanging Bastei we looked down some
six hundred feet upon the wandering Elbe,
threading its way by broad slopes, rich with
the growth of the vine, or by bleached walls
of stone, upon which even the lichens seemed
to have been unable to make good their footing.
From the narrow wooden bridge of Neu
Rathen, we looked down upon the waving
tops of fir trees, hundreds of feet beneath us.
Then down we ourselves went by a wild and
jagged path into a luxuriant valley called
by no unfit name, Liebethal—the Valley of
Love!

Then there was Königstein, seen far away,
a square-topped mountain, greyish white with
time and weather, soaring above the river's
level some fourteen hundred feet. And we
clambered on, never wearying; by mountain
fall and sombre cavern, and round the base
of an old rock up to a fortress, till we reached
the iron gates; and, amid the echo of repeated
passwords and the clatter of military arms,
entered its gloomy portal. We entered only
to pass through, and having admired from
the summit a glorious summer prospect, we
journeyed on again into the plains beyond,
and so entered the Austrian territory at
Peterswald.

Then there was a great change from fertility
to barrenness. From the moment we entered
Bohemia we were oppressed by a sense of
poverty, of sloth, or some worse curse resulting
from Austrian domination, which seemed to
have been enough to cripple even nature
herself as she stood about us. It was evident that
we had got among another race of people, or
else into contact with a quite different state
of things. At the first inn we found upon the
road, although it was a mighty, rambling
place, with stone staircases and spacious
chambers, there was not bedding enough in
the whole establishment for our party of five,
and yet we were the only guests. We were
reduced to the expedient of spreading the two
mattresses at our disposal close together upon
the bare boards, and so sleeping five men in one
double bed. A miserable night we had of it.
We fared better at Prague, which town we
entered the next day. That is a fine old city.
From the first glimpse we caught of it from
an adjoining hill, bathing its feet as it were
in the Moldan, we were charmed. There was
a wonderful cluster of minarets and conical
towers, half eastern, half German, piled up to
the summit of the castle hill. There was the
beautifully barbarous chapel of Johann von
Nepomuk, with its silver tomb. It was all
one lump of picturesque details, beautiful in
their outline and impressive in their very
age and, I may add, dirt. A rare picture of
middle age romance is Prague—a fragment of
the past uninjured and unchanged. The new
suspension bridge across the Moldan looks
ridiculous; it is incongruous; what has old
Prague to do with modern engineering? It
is a noble structure to be sure, of which the
inhabitants are proud; but it was designed
and executed for them by an Englishman.

From Prague we tramped with all the
diligence of needy travellers to Brünn, the
capital of Moravia. Our march was straggling.
Foremost strode Alcibiade Tourniquet, jeweller
and native of Argenteuil, the best fellow
in the world; but one who would persist in
marching in a pair of Parisian boots with
high, tapering heels, bearing the pain they
gave with little wincing. For him the ground
we trod was classical, for we were in the
neighbourhood of Austerlitz. Immediately
in his rear swaggered the Austrian, with
swarthy features and black straggling locks,
swaddled and dirty; be was called "bandit"
by general consent. The other three men of
our party tramped abreast under the guidance
of a Lübecker, a smart upright fellow, who,
on the strength of having served two years
iu an infantry regiment, naturally took the
position of drill-sergeant, and was dignified
with the name of Hannibal on that account.

We halted to rest in the village of Bischopiditz,
where the few straggling houses, and