O thou, who art our life, Be with us through the strife! Was not thy head by earth's fierce tempests bowed? To see a Father's love Beam, like the bow of promise, through the cloud. Even through the awful gloom, That light of love our guiding star shall be; The shadowy way to tread, Friend, Guardian, Saviour, which doth lead to thee. Scene from Hadad.-HILLHOUSE. The garden of ABSALOM's house on Mount Zion, near the palace, overlooking the city. TAMAR sitting by a fountain. Tamar. How aromatic evening grows! The flowers And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha; Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets. Blest hour! which He, who fashioned it so fair, So softly glowing, so contemplative, Hath set, and sanctified to look on man. This day's offences!-Ha! the wonted strain, Enter HADAD. Hadad. Does beauteous Tamar view, in this clear fount, Herself, or heaven? Tam. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence Those sad, mysterious sounds. Had. What sounds, dear princess? Tam. Surely, thou know'st; and now I almost think Some spiritual creature waits on thee. Had. I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends Up from the city to these quiet shades; A blended murmur sweetly harmonizing With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy, Tam. The sounds I mean Floated like mournful music round my head, From unseen fingers. Had. Tam When? Now, as thou camest. Had. 'Tis but thy fancy, wrought Had. Were we in Syria, I might say The naiad of the fount, or some sweet nymph, The goddess of these shades, rejoiced in thee, And gave thee salutations; but I fear Judah would call me infidel to Moses. Tam. How like my fancy! When these strains precede Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think Some gentle being, who delights in us, Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming; Had. Youthful fantasy, Attuned to sadness, makes them seem so, lady. Tam. But how delicious are the pensive dreams Had. Delicious to behold the world at rest. Meek Labor wipes his brow, and intermits The curse, to clasp the younglings of his cot; Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks-and, hark ! The jar of life is still; the city speaks In gentle murmurs; voices chime with lutes Tam. Ah, Hadad, meanest thou to reproach the Friend Who gave so much, because he gave not all? Had. Perfect benevolence, methinks, had willed With pleasure, like a flowing spring of life. Tam. Our Prophet teaches so, till man rebelled. Defensive volleyed from the throne; this, this Tam. Ah! talk not thus. Had. Is this benevolence ? Nay, loveliest, these things sometimes trouble me; Our Syrians deem each lucid fount, and stream, Of man, a spiritual race, allied To him by many sympathies, who seek His happiness, inspire him with gay thoughts, Cool with their waves, and fan him with their airs. O'er them, the Spirit of the Universe, Or Soul of Nature, circumfuses all With mild, benevolent, and sun-like radiance, And beauteous flowers, and branchy cedars, rise; They invocate with cheerful, gentle rites, With Nature's bounties, fruits, and fragrant flowers. Tam. Cast not reproach upon the holy altar. Had. Nay, sweet.-Having enjoyed all pleasures here That Nature prompts, but chiefly blissful love, At death, the happy Syrian maiden deems Her immaterial nies into the fields, Or circumambient clouds, or crystal brooks, And dwells, a Deity, with those she worshipped, Had. I almost wish Thou didst; for I have feared, my gentle Tamar, Announced in terrors, coupled with the threats Whose word annihilates, whose awful voice Burns unextinguished in the deeps of hell. Tam. Peace! impious! peace! Had. Ha! says not Moses so? The Lord is jealous Tam. Jealous of our faith, Our love, our true obedience, justly his; Implacable he is not; contrite man Had. But others have, If oracles be true. Tam. Little we know Of them; and nothing of their dire offence. Had. I meant not to displease, love; but my soul Sometimes revolts, because I think thy nature Shudders at him and yonder bloody rites. How dreadful! when the world awakes to light, Whose wasting members reek upon the air, And where the clotted current from the altar Tam. (in tears, clasping her hands.) I grieve for hopes that fade-for your lost soul, Had. O say not so, Beloved princess. Why distrust my faith? Tam. Thou know'st, alas! my weakness; but remember, I never, never will be thine, although The feast, the blessing, and the song were past, Though Absalom and David called me bride, Till sure thou own'st, with truth and love sincere, Roman Catholic Chaunt. From "Percy's Masque.”— HILLHOUSE. O, HOLY VIRGIN, call thy child; For, threatening, lower those skies so mild, From tears released to speedy rest, From youthful dreams which all beguiled, To quiet slumber on thy breast, O, holy Virgin, call thy child. . |