« 이전계속 »
THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT.
THE harp the monarch minstrel swept,
The king of men, the loved of Heaven, Which Music hallow'd while she wept
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! It soften'd men of iron mould,
It them virtues not their own; gave 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 made our gladden'd valleys ring,
Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode!
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
If there the cherish'd heart be fond,
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!
It must be so: 't is not for self
Yet cling to being's severing link.
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
And drink from all the living rills
Its airy step and glorious eye
A step as fleet, an eye more bright,
The cedars wave on Lebanon,
More blest each palm that shades those plains
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,
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 banks the Arabs' camels stray,
There where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone!
Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear!
SINCE Our country, our God—Oh, my sire!
And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
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
Оn! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
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;