"Thus we shall pierce our conqueror through
Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall,
We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace
Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call
Of vengeance wrings within me! Warriors all,
The word is vengeance, and the spur despair.
Away with coward wiles!-Death's coal-
Be now our standard !—Be our torch the glare Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the
Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old,
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves,
Was worship'd, God of Fire, with charms untold
And mystery. His wandering spirit roves,
Now vainly searching for the flame it loves;
And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire,
Where stood his temple, and, where fragrant
cloves
And cinnamon upheap'd the sacred pyre,
And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire.
He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast, And sighing-his papyrus scarf survey'd, Woven with dark characters, then thus address'd The troubled council.
Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
The lyre which I in early days have strung: And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,
On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more.
And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more reanimate the lay?
Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
One little space prolong my mournful day!
One little lapse suspend thy last decree!
I am a youthful traveller in the way,
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.
LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE
HEAVENS,
IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK.
YE many twinkling stars, who yet do hold
Your brilliant places in the sable vault
Of night's dominions!-Planets, and central orbs
Of other systems !-big as the burning sun
Which lights this nether globe,—yet to our eye
Small as the glowworm's lamp!-To you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd,
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold,
And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator! Him! who now sublime,
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude
Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres
Sits on his silent throne and meditates.
The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great," In varied harmonies.-The glorious sounds Roll o'er the air serene-The Eolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries,
Catch the full note, and cry,
Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne,
Till the whole universe is full of Him.
"The Lord is great,"
Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, What even are kings, when balanced in the scale Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works! Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look of kind benevolence?-Thou canst : For Thou art full of universal love,
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour.
Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys,
The gauds, and honours of the world appear! How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp Outwatch'd the slow-paced night?-Why on the
The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay
The loss of health? or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb into my languid heart,
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,
Reume the fires of this deep sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?
Say, foolish one-can that unbodied fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness,
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?
Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!
How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God!
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling.—All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.
LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER
AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.
OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.
MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in his eye.-Mary, awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low,
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
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