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Stands conqueror: and how the Roman conquers,
Tell, if one living man, one innocent child,
The tears thou sheddest feel as though I wrung them From mine own heart, my life blood's dearest drops)
They slew them, Miriam, at the mother's breast,
Javan, 'tis unkind!
I have enough at home of thoughts like these,
I hop'd with thee t' have passed a tranquil hour,
Thou know'st it is a lover's wayward joy
I would alarm thee, shock thee, but to save.
With thee! to fly with thee! thou mak'st me fear
By the fond thought, that for my father's life
Oh! farewell then The faithless dream, the sweet yet faithless dream, That Miriam loves me!
Love thee! I am here, Here at dead midnight by the fountain's side, Trusting thee, Javan, with a faith as fearless As that which the instinctive infant twines To its mother's bosom-Love thee! when the sounds Of massacre are round me, when the shouts
Of frantic men in battle rack the soul
On my wan cheeks, for then my spirit feasts
To heaven and bless thee; for from thee I learnt
Oh cease, I pray thee cease!
Is it not written so in our Law? and He
Oh, Miriam! what a fatal art hast thou
At that foul deed by her fierce children done; A few dim hours of day
The world in darkness lay;
Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless
Ere yet the white-rob'd angel shone
And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand
Thy mother's coming feet,
And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few.
Into thy native skies,
King of Kings! and Lord of Lords!
O'er all the hills of Palestine.
No! by the marvels of thine hand,
Like us in utter helplessness,
On the margin of the flood
With lifted rod the Prophet stood;
And aside it sternly throw
The gather'd waves, that took their stand, Like crystal rocks, on either hand,
Or walls of sea-green marble piled
Then the light of morning lay
Then with bow and banner glancing,
In a rich and boastful ring,
But the Lord from out his cloud,
The Lord look'd down upon the proud;
With a quick and sudden swell
Down they sank, they sank like lead,
Cast on a wide sea, heaving as of yore,
To the sound of timbrels sweet,
Thou hast left the joyous feast,
And the mirth and wine have ceast;
And now we set thee down before
CHORUS OF MAIDENS.
Hark! a brisker, merrier glee!
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND MAIDENS. Under a happy planet art thou led, Oh, chosen Virgin, to thy bridal bed. So put off thy soft and bashful sadness, And wipe away the timid maiden tear,Lo! redolent with the Prophet's oil of gladness, And mark'd by heaven, the Bridegroom youth
Joy to thee, beautiful and bashful Bride!
Upon the snowy fountain of thy breast;
And thou shalt feel how mothers' hearts are blest By hours of bliss for moment's pain and weeping.
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
Bereave me not of these delightful dreams
Cast friendless, where unheard some suff'rer cries Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long,
'Twere not a crime, should we awhile delay Amid the sunny field; and happier they, Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song To cheer their path, till they forget to weep; And the tired sense is hush'd and sinks to sleep.
Languid and sad, and slow, from day to day
I journey on, yet pensive turn to view, Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue, The streams and vales and hills that steal away. So fares it with the children of the earth.
For when life's goodly prospect opens round, Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth. But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles;
And soon a longing look like me they cast Back o'er the pleasing prospect of the past. Yet fancy points, where still far onward smiles Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends, Till cheerless on their path the night descends.
As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past, When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast, Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide That laves the pebbled shores; and now the beam Of evening smiles on the grey battlement, And yon forsaken tow'r that time has rent: The lifted oar far off with silver gleam Is touch'd, and the hush'd billows seem to sleep. Sooth'd by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast A kindred stillness steals, and bids her rest; Whilst sad airs stilly sigh along the deep, Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn, expire.
TO BAMBOROUGH CASTLE.
Ye holy tow'rs that shade the wave-worn steep, Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, Though hurrying silent by, relentless time Assail you, and the wintry whirlwind's sweep. For, far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls, Here Charity has fix'd her chosen seat;
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
TO THE RIVER WENSBECK.
As slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream,
Wensbeck! the mossy scatter'd rocks among, In fancy's ear still making plaintive song To the dark woods above, that waving seem To bend o'er some enchanted spot, remov'd
From life's vain scenes; I listen to the wind, And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, reclin'd O'er the forsaken tomb of one she lov'd. Fair scenes, ye lend a pleasure long unknown To him who passes weary on his way.
The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay, Shall thank you: and whene'er of pleasures flowa His heart some long lost image would renew, Delightful haunts! he will remember you.
TO THE RIVER TWEED.
O Tweed! a stranger that with wandering feet O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile (If so his weary thoughts he may beguile) Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet. The waving branches that romantic bend
O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow. The murmurs of thy wandering wave below Seem to his ear the pity of a friend. Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
When spring returns in all her wonted pride, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more; Yet here with pensive peace could I abide, Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar, To muse upon thy banks at even tide.
Evening, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Veiling with gentlest touch the landscape still. The lonely battlement, and farthest hill And wood-I think of those that have no friend: Who now perhaps by melancholy led, [flaunts, From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure Retiring, wander mid thy lonely haunts Unseen, and mark the tints that o'er thy bed Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye
Presenting fairy vales, where the tir'd mind Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, [wh Nor hear the hourly moans of misery. Ah! beauteous views, that Hope's fair gleams the Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!
ON THE RHINE.
Clydsdale, as thy romantic vales I leave,
Yet still your brightest images shall smile
TO THE RIVER ITCHIN.
Itchin, when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast On which the self-same tints still seem to rest; Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain? Is it, that many a summer's day has past
Since in life's morn I carol'd on thy side? Is it, that oft since then my heart has sigh'd, As youth's and hope's delusive gleams flew fast? Is it, that those who circled on thy shore, Companions of my youth, now meet no more? Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, From whom in happier hours we wept to part.
On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
And while the distant murmur met his ear,
LANDING AT OSTEND.
The orient beam illumes the parting oar,
Yet, mid the beauties of the morn unmov'd, Like one, for ever torn from all he lov'd, Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes, Where ev'ry pleasure seem'd ere while to dwell:
Yet boots it not to think or to complain,
'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the blushes of the bending vine) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted; varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire; Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow. Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair,
Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
WRITTEN AT OSTEND.
How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, And now along the white and level tide They fling their melancholy music wide, Bidding me many a tender thought recall Of summer days, and those delightful years,
When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime First wak'd my wondering childhood into tears; But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more.
If chance some pensive stranger hither led,
A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came
Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spake of a departed friend: And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest, Where husht to long repose the wretched rest.
O Time, who know'st a lenient hand to lay,
And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear,