« 上一頁繼續 »
THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT.
THE harp the monarch minstrel swept,
The king of men, the loved of Heaven, Which Music hallow'd while she wept
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! It soften'd men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold,
That felt not, fired not to the tone,
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne!
It told the triumphs of our king,
The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode! Since then, though heard on earth no more, Devotion and her daughter Love
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
To sounds that seem as from above,
In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.
IF THAT HIGH WORLD.
If that high world, which lies beyond
The eye the same, except in tears-
It must be so: 't is not for self
That we so tremble on the brink; And striving to o'erleap the gulph, Yet cling to being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think
To hold each heart the heart that shares, With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!
But we must wander witheringly,
And where our fathers' ashes be,
Our own may never lie: Our temple hath not left a stone, And Mockery sits on Salem's throne.
OH! WEEP FOR THOSE.
OH! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
ON JORDAN'S BANKS.
ON Jordan's banks the Arabs' camels stray,
Yet there even there-Oh God! thy thunders sleep:
There where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone!
Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear!
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear:
OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM.
On! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread:
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Away; we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
MY SOUL IS DARK.
My soul is dark.-Oh! quickly string
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
That sound shall charm it forth again; If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain:
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nurst,
And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, And break at once-or yield to song.
I SAW THEE WEEP.
I SAW thee weep-the big bright tear
I saw thee smile-the sapphire's blaze
It could not match the living rays
As clouds from yonder sun receive
Which scarce the shade of coming eve
Can banish from the sky,
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind
THY DAYS ARE DONE.
Tay days are done, thy fame begun;
The triumphs of her chosen son,
The slaughters of his sword! The deeds he did, the fields he won, The freedom he restored!
Though thou art fall'n, while we are free
The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Thy spirit on our breath!
Thy name, our charging hosts along, Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour'd! Το weep would do thy glory wrong! Thou shalt not be deplored.
SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Farewell to others, but never we part,
THOU whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear.
<< Samuel, raise thy buried head! King, behold the phantom seer!» Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud : Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud: Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; His hand was wither'd and his veins were dry; His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare: From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.
Why is my sleep disquieted? Who is he that calls the dead? Is it thou, oh king? Behold, Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: Such are mine; and such shall be Thine, to-morrow, when with me: Ere the coming day is done, Such shalt thou be, such thy son. Fare thee well, but for a day; Then we mix our mouldering clay. Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, Pierced by shafts of many a bow:
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart, thy hand shall guide: Crownless, breathless, headless fall, Son and sire, the house of Saul!»
« ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER.»
FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine,
I strive to number o'er what days
There rose no day, there roll'd no hour
And not a trapping deck'd my power That gall'd not while it glitter'd.
The serpent of the field, by art
And spells, is won from harming; But that which coils around the heart, Oh! who hath power of charming?
It will not list to wisdom's lore,
Nor music's voice can lure it; But there it stings for evermore
The soul that must endure it.
WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING
WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay, Ah, whither strays the immortal mind?
It cannot die, it cannot stay,
But leaves its darken'd dust behind,
By steps each planet's heavenly way?
Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,
A thought unseen, but seeing all,
Shall it survey, shall it recal:
Before creation peopled earth,
Its eye shall roll through chaos back; And where the furthest heaven had birth, The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes,
Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quench'd or system breaks,
Fix'd in its own eternity.
Above or love, hope, hate, or fear,
The monarch saw, and shook,
And expound the words of fear,
Chaldea's seers are good,
But here they have no skill: And the unknown letters stood,
Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age
Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage, They saw-but knew no more.
A captive in the land,
A stranger and a youth,
The morrow proved it true.
Is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state,
His canopy, the stone; The Mede is at his gate!
The Persian on his throne!»
SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! SUN of the sleepless! melancholy star! Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!
HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. OH, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony,
And wild remorse to rage succeeding.
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
And is she dead?-and did they dare
Obey my phrenzy's jealous raving? My wrath but doom'd my own despair:
The sword that smote her's o'er me waving.— But thou art cold, my murder'd love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
For her who soars alone above,
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
She's gone, who shared diadem!
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming.
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF
FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome
"I was thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home,
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane
BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN
We sat dawn and wept by the waters
Which roll'd on in freedom below,
That triumph the stranger shall know!
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIE. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
FROM JOB. A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld The face of immortality unveil'd
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mineAnd there it stood,-all formless-but divine: Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake :
«Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
The triumph, and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife-
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
All quell'd!-Dark spirit! what must be
The desolator desolate!
The victor overthrown! The arbiter of others' fate
A suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope!
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
He who of old would rend the oak
The Roman,3 when his burning heart
Had lost its quickening spell,
A strict accountant of his beads,
Ilis dotage trilled well: