« PreviousContinue »
How sound his sleep—his battle's o'er,
Life's fitful fever passed away,
And trump and drum are mute for aye.
While buried grandeur cannot buy
One mourner o'er its lonely bier,
His memory brighten in her tear.
'Twill steal upon the festal train,
And wake in music's melting strain,
But to the lone and widowed heart,
Can glory's voice a charm impart
They'll bid her try to think no more
On days and dreams for ever fled; They'll say that tears can ne'er restore
The loved—the lost—the silent dead.
But when was sorrow known to woo
The themes that make its pangs the less?
Or what have broken hearts to do
Or how should e'er the source of woe
The silent tear must ever flow,
John Malcolm, Esq.
ON SEEING, IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC',
A moment pause—ye British fair,
Awful was the victory!
Chastened should the triumph be;
'Midst the laurels she has won,
Britain mourns for many a son!
Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
Nature seemed to mourn the day,
Which consigned, before its close,
Thousands to their kindred clay!
How unfit for courtly ball,
Shall scenes like these the dance inspire,
Or wake the enlivening notes, of mirth?
Oh! shivered be the recreant lyre
That gave the base idea birth!
Other sounds—I ween were there,
Forbear—till time, with lenient hand,
When our race has passed away,
And give to joy alone, the view
IT IS NOT THE TEAR.
It is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fledi,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. >Tis the tear through many a long day wept,
Through a life by his loss all shaded; 'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded.
Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light,
While it shines through our hearts, will improve them; For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he lived but to love them!
To shrines where they've been lying;
From the image he left there in dying I
O! LAND OF THE GODLY.
O! Land of the Godly, how lone and deserted!
Thy tribes wander friendless, thy glory is gone! Thy Prophets are silent—their glory departed,
And hushed is the voice of the monarch of song.—
'Midst the towers of thy Salem the lone wolf is howling, O'er the wrecks of thy temple the wild Arab strays,
'Mong the tombs of thy fathers the tiger is prowling,
No longer the sounds of rejoicing and gladness,
Thy mirth is departed—thy joy changed to sadness—
OUR FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEYE
Our fathers,—where are they ?—and where