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THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL

SWEPT.

I.

THE HARP THE MONARCH MINISTREL SWEPT,
The King of men, the loved of Heaven,
Which Music hallowed while she wept
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given,
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
It softened men of iron mould,

It gave them virtucs not their own;
Nor ear so dull, no soul so cold,

That felt not, fired not to the tone,

Till David's Lyre grew mightier than his throne

II.

It told the triumphs of our King,
It wafted glory to our God;
It made our gladdened vallies 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.

IF THAT HIGH WORLD.

IF THAT HIGH WORLD,

I.

which lies beyond

Our own, surviving Love endears;
If there the cherished heart be fond,
The 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!

II.

It must be so: 'tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink;
And striving to o'erleap the gulph,
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!

VOL. IV.

H

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:

II.

A step as fleet, an eye more bright,
Hath Judah witnessed there;
And o'er her scenes of lost delight
Inhabitants more fair.

The cedars wave on Lebanon,

But Judah's statelier maids are gone!

III.

More blest each palm that shades those plains

Than Israel's scattered race;

For; taking root, it there remains

In solitary grace:

It cannot quit its place of birth,

It will not live in other earth.

IV.

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.

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