In mournful silence on the willows hung',
And growing grief prolonged the tedious day'.
The barbarous tyrants', to increase the wo',
With taunting smiles a song of Zion claim';
Bid sacred praise in streams melodious flow',
While they blaspheme the great Jehovah's name'.
But how', in heathen chains', and lands unknown',
Shall Israel's sons a song of Zion raise'?
O', hapless Salem! God's terrestrial throne"!
Thou land of glory', sacred mount of praise'
If e'er my memoryd lose thy lovely name',
If my cold heart neglect my kindred race',
Let dire destruction seize this guilty frame':
My hand shall perish', and my voice shall cease'.
Yet shall the Lord', who hears when Zion calls',
O'ertake her foes with terrour and dismay';
His arm avenge her desolated walls',
And raise her children to eternal day'.
Version of the same.—BYRON.
We sat down and wept by the waters'
Of Babel', and thought of the day'
When our foe', in the house of his slaughters',
Made Salem's high places his prey';
And ye', oh', her desolate daughters'!
Were scattered all weeping away'.
While sadly we gazed on the river'
Which rolled on in freedom below',
They demanded the song'; but', oh', never'
That triumph the stranger shall know"!
May this right hand be withered forever',
Ere it string our high harp for the foe'!
On the willow that harp is suspended',
Oh Salem its sound should be free';
Silense. Salem. care. Mềmur rẻ.
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'.
Cardinal Wolsey's Soliloquy on Ambition.—SHAKSPEARE.
FAREWELL', a long farewell', to all my greatness'!
This is the state of man':-to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope'; to-morrow', blossoms',
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him':*
The third day', comes a frost', a killing frost';
And',-when he thinks', good', easy man', full surely
His greatness is a rîpening',—nips his root',
And then he falls', as I do'. I have ventured',
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders',
These many summers in a sea of glory';
But far beyond my depth'. My high-blown pride
At length broke under me'; and now has left me',
Weary', and old with service', to the mercy
Of a rude stream that must forever hide me'.
Vain pomp and glory of this world', I hate you':
I feel my heart new opened'. O', how wretched
Is that pôôr man that hangs on princes' favours"!
There are', betwixt that smile he would aspire to',
That sweet aspect of princes and his ruin',
More pangs and fears than wars or women have':
And when he falls', he falls', like Lucifer',
Cardinal Wolsey's Farewell Address to Cromwell.
SHAKSPEARE.
CROMWELL', I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries'; but thou hast forced me',
Out of thy honest truth', to play the woman'.
Let's dry our eyes': and', thus far', hear me', Cromwell':
And',—when I am forgotten', as I shall be',
And sleep in dull', cold marble', where no mention
Of me more must be heard of",-say', I taught thee';
Say', Wolsey', that once trod the ways of glory',
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour',
Found thee a way', out of his wreck', to rise in';
A sure and safe one', though thy master'.. missed it'.
Mark but my fall', and that that ruined me'.
Cromwell', I charge thee', fling away ambition'.
By that sin fell the angels'. How can man', then',
The image of his Maker', hope to win by it'?
Love thyself last': cherish those hearts that hate thee'.
Corruption wins not more than honesty'!
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace',
To silence envious tongues'. Be just', and fear not"!
Let all the ends thou aim'st at', be thy country's',
Thy God's', and truth's': then', if thou fallest', O, Cromwell',
Thou fallest a blessed martyr'.
O', Cromwell', Cromwell!!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king', he would not', in my age',
Have left me naked to my enemies'.
ON Linden', when the sun was low',
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow',
And dark as winter was the flow'
Of Iser'd rolling rapidly'.
But'.. Linden saw another sight',
When the drum beat', at dead of night',
Commanding fires of death to light'
The darkness of her scenery'.
By torch and trumpet'.. fast arrayed',
Each horsemane drew his battle-blade',
And furious every charger neighed'
To join the dreadful revelry'.
Si'lense-not, si'lunce. •Horse'mán-not, hos'mun.
Fåll'lêst. Lin'den-not, Lin'dun. dE'ser.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven',
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven',
And', louder than the bolts of heaven',
Far flashed the red artillery'.
And redder yet those fires shall glow',
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow',
And darker yet shall be the flow'
Of Iser', rolling rapidly'.
"Tis morn':... but scarce yon lurid sun'
Can pierce the war-clouds' rolling dun',
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun'
Shout'... in their sulph'rous canopy'.
The Burial of Sir John Moore.-WOLFE.
Nor a drum was heard', nor a funeral note',
As his corsed o'er the rampart we hurried',
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot',
O'er the grave where our hero was buried'.
We buried him darkly', at dead of night',
The sod with our bayonetse turning',
By the trembling moon-beam's misty light',
And our lantern dimly burning'.
No useless coffinf enclosed his breast',
Nor in sheet', nor in shroud', we bound him';
But he lay' like a warriour taking his rest',
With his martial cloak around him'.
Lin'den-not, Lin'dun. E'sêr. Kům'bât. Korse. Ba'yûnts. 'Kôf' fin.
Few and short were the prayers we said',
We spoke not a word of sorrow';
But steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead',
And bitterly thought'.. of the morrow'.
We thought', as we hollowed his narrow bed',
And smoothed down his lowly pillow',
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head',
And we'... far away o'er the billow'.
Lightly they'll speak of the spirit that's gone',
And o'er his cold ashes'.. upbraid him';
But little he'll reck', if they let him sleep on'
In the grave where his comradesa have laid him".
Not the half of our heavy task was done',
When the bell told the hour for retiring';
And we knew', by the distant random gun',
That the foe was then sullenly firing'.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down',
From the field of his fame'.. fresh and gory':
We carved not a line', we raised not a stone';
But left him alone'.. with his glory'.
Messiah.-POPE.
A Sacred Eclogue.
YE nymphs of Solyma'! begin the song':
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong'.
The mossy fountains', and the sylvan shâdes',
The dreams of Pindus', and the Aonian maids',
Delight no more'.-O, Thou my voice inspire'
Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire!!
Rapt into future times', the bard begun':
A virgin shall conceive', a VIRGIN bear a Son':
From Jesse's root', behold a branch arise',
Whose sacred flower with fragrances fills the skies';
The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move',
And on its top descends the mystick dove'.
Ye heavens"! from high the dewy nectar pour',
And', in soft silence', shed the kindly shower"!
*Kam'rådez.
out of it, pore.
Sol'y-ma, Jerusalem. Frå'gránse. Pour, in rhyme;
|