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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,
It wafted glory to our God;
It made our gladden'd valleys ring,

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, which lies beyond
Our own, surviving love endears;
If there the cherish'd heart be fond,

The eye the same, except in tears-
How welcome those untrodden spheres!
How sweet this very hour to die!
To soar from earth, and find all fears
Lost in thy light-Eternity!

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,
In other lands to die;

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 that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell;
Mourn where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell!

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet?
And Judah's melody once more rejoice
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest!
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country-Israel but the grave!


ON Jordan's banks the Arabs' camels stray,
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray,
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep-

Yet there even there-Oh God! thy thunders sleep:

There where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone!
There where thy shadow to thy people shone!
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire:
Thyself-none living see and not expire!

Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear!

Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear:
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod?
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God?



On! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;

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.-Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,

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-the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew:

I saw thee smile-the sapphire's blaze
Beside thee ceased to shine,

It could not match the living rays
That fill'd that glance of thine.

As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow die,

Which scarce the shade of coming eve

Can banish from the sky,

Those smiles unto the moodiest mind
Their own pure joy impart;
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind
That lightens o'er the heart.


Tay days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country's strains record

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
Thou shalt not taste of death!

The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,

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.

WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the for,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.

Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!


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!»


FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine,
And health and youth possess'd me;
My goblets blush'd from every vine,
And lovely forms caress'd me;
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender;
All earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.

I strive to number o'er what days
Remembrance can discover,
Which all that life or earth displays
Would lure me to live over.

There rose no day, there roll'd no hour
Of pleasure unembitter'd;

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 clay, Ah, whither strays the immortal mind?

It cannot die, it cannot stay,

But leaves its darken'd dust behind,
Then, unembodied, doth it trace

By steps each planet's heavenly way?
Or fill at once the realms of space,
A thing of eyes, that all survey?

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,

A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth, or skies display'd,

Shall it survey, shall it recal:
Each fainter trace that memory holds,
So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the soul beholds,
And all, that was, at once appears.

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,
It lives all passionless and pure:

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The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless wax'd his look
And tremulous his voice.
« Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,

And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth.>>

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,
He heard the king's command,
He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night,—

The morrow proved it true.
«Belshazzar's grave is made,
His kingdom pass'd away,
He in the balance weigh'd,

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,
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;
A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant-clear-but, oh how cold!

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine-
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,

WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!

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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.
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah, couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now,
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.

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!
She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
I swept that flower from Judah's stem

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming.
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom's desolation dooming;
And I have earn'd those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming!


FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome
I beheld thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome:

"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,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;

I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,

But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign;
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.


We sat dawn and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scatter'd all weeping away.
While sadly we gazed on the river

Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never

That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be wither'd for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,

Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended,
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!

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
That host with their banners at sunset were seen :
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blowe,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill.
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew £4*

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mad,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baai
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

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
Than he who deems even seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to wisdom's wasted light!»

Miscellaneous Poems.

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The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife-
The earthquake shout of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;

The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-

All quell'd!-Dark spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!

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-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave'

He who of old would rend the oak
Dream'd not of the rebound;
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke,
Alone-how look'd he round?--
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength
An equal deed hast done at length,
And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman,3 when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home.
He dared depart, in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.
The Spaniard, when the lust of

Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,

Ilis dotage trilled well:

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