[2] For an Engraving and full description of the Mosque of Santa Sophia,
    see the mirror, vol. ii. p.p. 473, 486.

[3] Mr. Hobhouse has pointed out some remarkable points of similarity
    between the funereal customs of the Greeks and those of the Irish; in
    particular, the howling lament, the interrogating the corpse, “Why did
    you die?” and the wake and feast.  “But a more singular resemblance,”
    he adds, “is that which is to be remarked between a Mahommedan and an
    Irish opinion relative to the same ceremony.  When a dead Mussulman is
    carried on his plank towards the cemetery, the devout Turk runs from
    his house as the procession passes his door, for a short distance
    relieves one of the bearers of the body, and then gives up his place
    to another, who hastens to perform the same charitable and holy office. 
    No one who has been in Ireland, but must have seen the peasants leave
    their cottages or their work, to give a temporary assistance to those
    employed in bearing the dead to the grave an exertion by which they
    approach so many steps nearer to Paradise.”

[4] “Sultan Mahmoud’s horse was actually interred in the cemetery of
    Scutari, under a dome supported by eight pillars.”

* * * * *

TWO SONNETS.

To M——­ F——­.

(For the Mirror.)

I.

  I met thee, ——­, when the leaves were green,
    And living verdure clothed the countless trees;
    When meadow flowers allured the summer bees,
  And silvery skies shone o’er the cloudless scene,
  Bright as my thoughts when wand’ring to thy home;
    Where Nature looks as though she were divine,
    Not in the richness of the rip’ning vine,
  Not in the splendour of imperial Rome. 
  It is a ruder scene of rocks and trees,
    Where even barrenness is beauty—­where
    The glassy lake, below the mountain bare,
  Curls up its waters ’neath the casual breeze;
  And, ’midst the plenitude of flower and bud,
  Sweet violets hide them in the hilly wood.

II.

  I parted with thee one autumnal day,
    When o’er the woods the northern tempest beat—­
    The spoils of autumn rustling at our feet,
  And Nature wept to see her own decay. 
  The pliant poplar bent beneath the blast;
    The moveless oak stood warring with the storm,
    Which bow’d the pensive willow’s weaker form;
  And naught gave token that thy love would last,
  Save the mute eloquence of forcing tears;
    Save the low pleading of thy ardent sighs,
    The fervent gazing of thy glowing eyes;
  A firm assurance, spite of all my fears,
  That, as the sunshine dries the summer rain,
  Thy future smile should bless for parting pain.