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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
These all shall melt before the fearless
That round thy sacred head, divine Immanuel! plays.
Thus in the stillness of the midnight hour Thy walls, Philippi! felt the rushing
With viewless haste the awful spirit trodeThe earth, affrighted, quak'd beneath her
Locks, chains, and bolts, his kingly presence
The bands are loos'd-the pris'ners wander free!
Isles of the South-lo! where the heath[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
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
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
Thy flocks shall rest, or skirt the babbling
And the slow herd, where now the wild boars lave,
Bow their meek heads to taste the crystal
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
Through vistas dark of long sepulchre'd years!
Its faintest gleam Alua's soul appals—
O'er your own waves the distant glories
Precursive heralds of advancing day!
And, sweet to heav'n, from many a kindred shore
Thy lovely songs, victorious Lion! soar.
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,
Scarce have we time each friend to greet,
Repining in this world is vain,
When rising at the trumpet's call,