THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT. THE harp the monarch minstrel swept, It soften'd men of iron mould, It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold, That felt not, fired not to the tone, Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne! It told the triumphs of our king, It wafted glory to our God; It made our gladden'd valleys 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. THAT HIGH WORLD. If that high world, which lies beyond The How welcome those untrodden spheres! It must be so: 't is 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! THE WILD GAZELLE. THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills Exulting yet may bound, Its airy step and glorious eye May glance in tameless transport by : A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 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, It will not live in other earth. 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? Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, ON JORDAN'S BANKS. ON Jordan's hanks the Arabs' camels stray, Yet there even there-Oh God! thy thunders sleep: There where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone! Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear! 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, VOL. X. 6 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, And forget not I smiled as I died! OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. On! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, Away; we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress: |