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Stands conqueror: and how the Roman conquers, Of frantic men in battle rack the soul
Let Gischala, let fallen Jotapata

With their importunate and jarring din,
Tell, if one living man, one innocent child,

Javan, I think on thee, and am at peace.
Yet wander o'er their cold and scatter'd ashes. Our famish'd maidens gaze on me, and see
They slew them, Miriam, the old grey man, That I am famish'd like themselves, as pale,
Whose blood scarce tinged their sword-(nay, turn With lips as parch'd and eyes as wild, yet I
not from me,

Sit patient with an enviable smile
The tears thou sheddest feel as though I wrung them On my wan cheeks, for then my spirit feasts
From mine own heart, my life blood's dearest Contented on its pleasing thoughts of thee.
drops)-

My very prayers are full of thee, I look
They slew them, Miriam, at the mother's breast, To heaven and bless thee ; for from thee I learnt
The smiling ivfants ;—and the tender maid, The way by which we reach the eternal mansions.
The soft, the loving, and the chaste like thee, But thou, injurious Javan! coldly doubtest.
They slew her not till

And-Oh! but I have said too much. Oh! scorn not

The immodest maid, whom thou hast vex'd to utter Miriam.

What yet she scarce dared whisper to herself.
Javan, 'tis unkind!
I have enough at home of thoughts like these,

Javan,
Thoughts horrible, that freeze the blood, and make Will it then cease! will it not always sound
A heavier burthen of this weary life.

Sweet, musical as thus? and wilt thou leave me? I hop'd with thee t' have passed a tranquil hour,

Miriam. A brief, a hurried, yet still tranquil hour !

My father! - But thou art like them all! the miserable

Javan. Have only Heaven, where they can rest in peace,

Miriam! is not thy father Without being mock'd and taunted with their

(Oh, that such flowers should bloom on such a stock !) misery Javan.

The curse of Israel? even his common name

Simon the assassin! of the bloody men Thou know'st it is a lover's wayward joy

That hold their iron sway within yon city, To be reproach'd by her he loves, or thus

The bloodiest! Thou would'st not speak. But t'was not to provoke

Miriam. That sweet reproof, which sounds so like to tenderness :

Oh cease, I pray thee cease!

Javan! I know that all men hate my father; I would alarm thee, shock thee, but to save.

Javan! I fear that all should hate my father; That old and secret stair, down which thou stealest

And therefore, Javan, must his daughter's love, At midnight through tall grass and olive trunks, Which cumber, yet conceal thy difficult path,

Her dutiful, her deep, her fervent love, It cannot long remain secure and open;

Make up to his forlorn and desolate heart

The forfeited affections of his kind.
Nearer and closer the stern Roman winds

Is it not written so in our Law ? and He
His trenches; and on every side but this
Soars his imprisoning wall. Yet, yet 'tis time,

We worship came not to destroy the Law.
And I must bear thee with me, where are met

Then let men rain their curses, let the storm

Of human hate beat on his rugged trunk, In Pella the neglected church of Christ.

I will cling to him, starve, die, bear the scoffs Miriam.

Of men upon my scatter'd bones with him. With thee! to fly with thee! thou mak'st me fear

Javan. Lest all the while I have deceived my soul,

Oh, Miriam! what a fatal art hast thou Excusing to myself our stolen meetings

Of winding thought, word, act, to thy sole purpose; By the fond thought, that for my father's life

The enamouring one even now too much enamour'd! I labour'd, bearing sustenance from thee,

I must admire thee more for so denying, Which he hath deem'd heaven-sent.

Than I had dared if thou hadst fondly granted.
Javan.

Thou dost devote thyself to utterest peril,
Oh! farewell then

And me to deepest anguish; yet ev
The faithless dream, the sweet yet faithless dream,

Thou art lovelier to me in thy cold severity That Miriam loves me!

Flying me, leaving me without a joy,

Without a hope on earth, without thyself;
Miriam.

Thou art lovelier now than if thy yielding soul
Love thee! I am here, Had smiled on me a passionate consent.
Here at dead midnight by the fountain's side, Go; for I see thy parting homeward look,
Trusting thee, Javan, with a faith as fearless Go in thy beauty! like a setting star,
As that which the instinctive infant twines

The last in all the thick and moonless heavens, Toits mother's bosom-Love thee! when the sounds O'er the lone traveller in the trackless desert. Of massacre are round me, when the shouts

Go! if this dark and miserable earth

even now

a

come,

Do jealously refuse us place for meeting,

Al that foul deed by her fierce children done; There is a heaven for those who trust in Christ.

A few dim hours of day Farewell!

The world in darkness lay; (sun. And thou return'st !

Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless

While thou didst sleep within the tomb,
Miriam.
I had forgot-

Consenting to thy doom ;

Ere yet the white-rob’d angel shone The fruit, the wine-- -Ob! when I part from thee,

Upon the sealed stone. How can I think of ought but thy last words ?

And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand Javan.

With Devastation in thy red right hand, Bless thee! but we may meet again even here!

Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew: Thou look'st consent, I see it through thy tears.

But thou didst haste to meet
Yet once again that cold sad word, Farewell!

Thy mother's coming feet,
And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few.

Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise
ODE, TO THE SAVIOUR.

Into thy native skies,
-For thou wert born of woman! thou didst

Thy human form dissolved on high

In its own radiancy.
Oh Holiest! to this world of sin and gloom,
Not in thy dread omnipotent array ;
And not by thunders strew'd

CHORUS.
Was thy tempestuous road;

King of Kings! and Lord of Lords !
Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way.

Thus we move, our sad steps timing
But thee, a soft and naked child,

To our cymbals' feeblest chiming,
Thy mother undefil'd

Where thy House its rest accords.
In the rude manger laid to rest

Chas'd and wounded birds are we,
From off her virgin breast.

Through the dark air fled to thee;
The heavens were not commanded to prepare

To the shadow of thy wings,

Lord of Lords! and King of Kings!
A gorgeous canopy of golden air ;
Norstoop'd their lamps th'enthroned fires on ligh: Behold, oh Lord! the Heathen tread
A single silent star

The branches of thy fruitful vine,
Came wandering from afar,

That its luxurious tendrils spread
Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky;

O'er all the hills of Palestine.
The Eastern sages leading on

And now the wild boar comes to waste
As at a kingly throne,

Even

us,

the greenest boughs and last,
To lay their gold and odours sweet

That, drinking of thy choicest dew;
Before thy infant feet.

On Zion's bill, in beauty grew.
The Earth and Ocean were not hush'd to hear

No! by the marvels of thine hand, Bright harmony from every starry sphere;

Thou wilt save thy chosen land !
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song

By all thine ancient mercies shown,
From all the cherub choirs,

By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown;
And seraphs' burning lyres, (along. By the Egyptian's car-borne host,
Pour'd thro' the host of beaven the charmed clouds Scatter'd on the Red Sea coast;
One angel-troop the strain began,

By that wide and bloodless slaughter
Of all the race of man

Underneath the drowning water.
By simple shepherds heard alone,
That soft Hosanna's tone.

Like us in utter helplessness,

In their last and worst distressAnd when thou didst depart, no car of flame

On the sand and sea-weed lying,
To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came; Israel pour'd her doleful sighing;
Nor visible angels mourn’d with drooping plumes: While before the deep sea flow'd,
Nor didst thou mount on high

And behind fierce Egypt rode
From fatal Calvary

(tombs. To their fathers' God they pray'd, With all thy own redeem'd out bursting from their To the Lord of I losts for aid.

For thou didst bear away from earth
But one of human birth,

On the margin of the flood
The dying felon by thy side, to be

With lifted rod the Prophet stood ;
In Paradise with thee.

And the summond east wind blew,

And aside it sternly threw Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake; The gather'd waves, that took their stand, A little while the conscious earth did shake

Like crystal rocks, on eitther hand,

Or walls of sea-green marble piled

And now we set thee down before Round some irregular city wild.

The jealously-unclosing door,

That the favour'd youth admits Then the light of morning lay

Where the veiled virgin sits On the wonder-paved way,

In the bliss of maiden fear, Where the treasures of the deep

Waiting our soft tread to hear; In their caves of coral sleep.

And the music's brisker din, The profound abysses, where

At the Bridegroom's entering in, Was never sound from upper air,

Entering in a welcome guest Rang with Israel's chanted words,

To the chamber of his rest. King of Kings! and Lord of Lords!

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WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour

Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high, Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tow'r,

And turns her ear to each expiring cry, Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, And snatch him cold and speechless from the grave.

SONNETS.
Bereave me not of these delightful dreams

Which charm'd my youth; or mid her gay career

Of hope, or when the faintly-paining tear Sat sad on memory's cheek! though loftier themes

Await the awaken’d mind, to the high prize Of wisdom hardly, earn’d with toil and pain, Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain

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.

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, tbat 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 flowo His heart some long lost image would renew, Delightful haunts! he will remember you.

Languid and sad, and slow, from day to day

Ijourney 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.

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, & 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.

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

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, [Baants

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, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery.

(sh Ah! beauteous views, that Hope's fair gleams to Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!

ON THE RHINE.

TO THE RIVER ITCHIN.

WRITTEN AT OSTEND.

Clydsdale, as thy romantic vales I leave,
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow Where musing Fancy seems to linger still,

(Hung with the blushes of the bending vine) Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve

Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more

Rhine I may return your varied views to mark

We bounded, and the white waves round the prow Of rocks amid the sunshine tow'ring dark;

In murmurs parted; varying as we go,
Of rivers winding wild, and mountains hoar,
Or castle gleaming on the distant steep!

Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire;

Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Yet still your brightest images shall smile

Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow. To charm the lingering stranger, and beguile Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair, His way; whilst I the poor remembrance keep

Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's sido Like those, that muse on some sweet vision flown,

The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; To chear me wandering on my way alone.

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. 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?

How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal! Is it, that many a summer's day has past

As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze

Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, Since in life's morn I carol'd on thy side?

So piercing to my heart their force I feel ! Is it, that oft since then my heart has sigh'd,

And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, As youth's and hope's delusive gleams flew fast? Is it, that those who circled on thy shore,

And now along the white and level tide Companions of my youth, now meet no more?

They fling their melancholy music wide, Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend

Bidding me many a tender thought recall

Of summer days, and those delightful years,
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart,
As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,

When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, From whom in happier hours we wept to part.

The mournful magic of their mingling chime

First wak'd my wondering childhood into tears; DOVER CLIFFS.

But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood

The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more. Uplift their shadowy heads, and at their feet

Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, If chance some pensive stranger hither led, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;

His bosom glowing from romantic views, And while the distant murmur met his ear,

The gorgeous palace or proud landscape's hues, And o'er the distant billows the still eve

Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed? Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave 'Tis poor Matilda!- to the cloister'd scene

To-morrow; of the friends he lov'd most dear; A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came Of social scenes from which he wept to part.

To shed her secret tears, and quench the flame But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all

Of hopeless love! yet was her look serene The thoughts that would full fain the past recall; As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle. Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, Like that which spake of a departed friend: The world his country, and his God his guide. And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!

Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest,

Where husht to long repose the wretched rest. The orient beam illumes the parting oar,

From yonder azure track emerging white

The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight, O Time, who know'st a lenient hand to lay,
Aud the blue wave comes ripling to the shore. Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence
Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies.

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) Yet, mid the beauties of the morn unmoy'd, The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away: Like one, for ever torn from all he lov'd,

On thee I rest my only hopes at last;
Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes, And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear,
Where ev'ry pleasure seem'd ere while to dwell: That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
Yet boots it not to think or to complain,

I may look back on many a sorrow past,
Musing sad ditties to the reckless main.

And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile. To dreams like these adieu! the pealing bell

As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Speaks of the hour that stays not, and the day

Sings in the sunshine of the transient show'r, To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while.

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LANDING AT OSTEND.

TO TIME.

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