« 上一頁繼續 »
To thee we raise the voice of praise,
We praise the Power that made us;
While every day that rolls away
Life is from thee, blessed Father;
Though trial and affliction
And when Death’s final summons
The Temple of Theseus.”—JAMEs WALLIs EAs THURN.
UNCRUMBLED yet, the sacred fane uprears
Girt with the sculptured deeds achieved of yore,
The inner shrine no more protects the slave, The holy walls no more the oppressed can save, The wretch no longer safety there can claim, And live secure in Theseus' hallowed name; Sunk are his glories in Oblivion's tomb, His deeds obscured by centuries of gloom.
To holier uses rise those walls on high,
* The temple of Theseus at Athens—one of the most beautiful and entire remains of ancient art—was once a sanctuary for slaves, and men who needed protection. It is now dedicated to St. George, and is revered by the Athenians as much, perhaps, as it ever was.
On the Death of a beautiful young Girl.—
'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus; when Hope has built a bower, Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust,
A whirlwind from the desert comes, and “all is in the dust.”
'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings,
'Tis ever thus—’tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this: One moment round about us their angel lightnings play; Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away.
'Tis ever thus—’tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth,
'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, with all that's best below:
Tis ever thus—’tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair,
Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bear:
A little while they dwell with us, blessed ministers of love;
Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.
—oLines to a Lady of great musica, Talent.—MRs CHILD.
THANKs, Orphea, thanks: thy magic spell
And, deep within a sealed well,
My ear was like the wayward strings,
And fitful in its echoings
But something in my inmost heart
And bids me own thy wondrous art
Yes, all I’ve dreamed of bright or fair
Music is floating on the air,
All Nature hath of breezy grace,
Each lovely hue upon her face,
Well might thy witchery inspire
And flashes of prophetic fire
But vainly would the haunted king
For chained had been each demon's wing
Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement of Charlestown.—PIERPont.”
Two hundred years!—two hundred years!—
* There is uncommon grandeur, both of thought and expression, in several of Mr. Pierpont's occasional odes. This piece, Napoleon at Rest, and the Hymn at Bunker Hill, are similar in their general character, and all truly sublime.—Ed.
What glorious hopes, what'gloomy fears, Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide :-
The red man, at his horrid rite,
His bark canoe, its track of light
His dance, his yell, his counsel fire,
His death-song, and his funeral pyre,
And that pale pilgrim band is gone,
Ready to faint, yet bearing on
And war—that, since, o'er ocean came,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers,
Time, for the last two hundred years,
'Tis like a dream when one awakes—
'Tis like the moon when morning breaks;
Then what are we —then what are we?– Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be A morning dream, a tale that's told.
God of our fathers, in whose sight
Man, and the traces of his might,
Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That makes thy children, in all time,