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: 'tis not for self That we so tremble on the brink; To hold each heart the heart that shares, THE WILD GAZELLE. THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills And drink from all the living rills Its airy step and glorious eye May glance in tameless transport by : A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 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, But we must wander witheringly, And where our fathers' ashes be, Our temple hath not left a stone, OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. OH! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice? Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, ON JORDAN'S BANKS. ON Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, Yet there even there-O 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; JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. SINCE our Country, our God-oh, my sire! Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow- And the voice of my mourning is o'er, If the hand that I love lay me low, And of this, oh, my father! be sure- And the last thought that soothes me below. Though the virgins of Salem lament, When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. OH! 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, Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead' Away! ye 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, MY SOUL IS DARK. My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string 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, "Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. But bid the strain be wild and deep, |