網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

It soften'd men of iron mould,
It
gave

them yirtues 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.

[ocr errors]

IF THAT HIGH WORLD.

The

If that high world, which lies beyond

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

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 gulf,

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 !

THE WILD GAZELLE.

The wild gazelle on Judah’s hills

Exulting yet may bound,
And drink from all the living rills

That gush on holy ground;
Its airy step and glorious eye
May glance in tameless transport by:-

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, .

Hath Judah witness'd there;
And o'er her scenes of lost delight

Inhabitants more fair.
The cedars wave on Lebanon,
But Judah's statelier maids are gone !

More blest each palm that shades those plains

Than Israel's scatter'd race;
For, taking root, it there remains

In solitary grace:
It cannot quit its place of birth,
It will not live in other earth.

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.

Он! !

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

and be at rest!
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country- Israel but the grave!

ye flee away

ON JORDAN'S BANKS.

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray,
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries

pray. The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steepYet 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!

JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER.

Since our country, our God—Oh, my sire !
Demand that thy daughter expire ;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow-
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!

And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!

And of this, oh, my father! be sure-
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
And the last thought that soothes me below.

Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent !
I have won the great battle for thee,
And

my father and country are free!

When this blood of thy giving hath gush’d,
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died !

OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM.

OH! 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,

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.

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 dye,
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.

THY DAYS ARE DONE.

Thy 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!
To
weep

would do thy glory wrong; Thou shalt not be deplored.

« 上一頁繼續 »