The dungeon-gloom of superstition's night— The wizard spell-the homicidal rite,

Each hell-wrought rite of Satan's fest❜ring chain

Like Sampson's cords shall part-nor close

again;

These all shall melt before the fearless

blaze

That round thy sacred head, divine Immanuel! plays.

Thus in the stillness of the midnight hour Thy walls, Philippi! felt the rushing power

With viewless haste the awful spirit trodeThe earth, affrighted, quak'd beneath her

God;

Locks, chains, and bolts, his kingly presence

flee;

The bands are loos'd-the pris'ners wander free!

Isles of the South-lo! where the heath

fern runs

[suns;

O'er sterile wastes, beneath your glowing And giant forests, thick with nodding

plumes,

Roll their dark shadows down the distant

glooms;

Whose stately trunks, for many an age

o'erpast,

Have rock'd and groan'd beneath the wailing blast;

(Where oft the moonbeam gilds the craggy

stone

That guards some mould'ring corse, or grisly skeleton)

E'en there the woodman's sturdy stroke shall sound,

And crashing pines bestrew the trembling

ground;

E'en there-the team shall plough the knotted plain,

And recent wilds rejoice with waving grain.

Couch'd on the velvet slopes of grass-clad

bills,

Thy flocks shall rest, or skirt the babbling

rills;

And the slow herd, where now the wild boars lave,

Bow their meek heads to taste the crystal

wave.

To ev'ry isle, o'er which the zephyr sweeps Its breezy health across the rippling deeps, Their golden stores the handmaid ants shall bring,

And o'er its rugged forms their softning lustre fling.

Lift, mourning land! then lift the drooping eye

O'er the sure page of wakeful prophecyThere Bethlehem's Star in stately march

pears,

Through vistas dark of long sepulchre'd years!

Its faintest gleam Alua's soul appals—
See-like the meteor-blaze, he falls!-he

falls!

O'er your own waves the distant glories

play,

Precursive heralds of advancing day!
Her gods obscene, lo! Otaheite binds,

And casts them, headlong, to the raving winds:

And, sweet to heav'n, from many a kindred

But hope still views thy moral suns arise, In cloudless splendour and in happier skies. Thy demon-king beholds the coming hour That snaps his sceptre, and dissolves his power,

"WE SHALL MEET AGAIN!"

WE part to-day—but when to meet,
Alas! no one can tell;

Scarce have we time each friend to greet,
Ere we must say, Farewell!

Repining in this world is vain,
Our solace is-We'll meet again!

When rising at the trumpet's call,
The warrior girds his sword;
No fear his vent'rous heart can pall,
When glad he hears that word :
Though, love, we now must part in pain,
My heart bodes sure-We'll meet again!