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النشر الإلكتروني

Waste sandy valleys, ouce perplex'd with thoru,
The spiry fir and stately box adorn;
To leafless shrubs the flow'ring palms succeed,
And od’rous myrtle to the noisome weed.
The lambs with wolves shall grace the verdant mead,
And boys in flow'ry bands the tiger lead;
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleas'd, the green lustre of their scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise !
Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes;
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies !
See barb'rons nations at thy gate attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temples bend;
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabæan springs !
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her silver horn ;

But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Reveald, and God's eternal day be thine !
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his saving power remains ;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns !

EDWIN AND ANGELINA.

A BALLAD.

BY DR. GOLDSMITIT.

Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

* For here, forloru and lost, I tread,

With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go."

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Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder phantom only flies,

To lure thee to thy doom.

His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,

With answering care opprest; “ And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry'd,

The sorrows of thy breast?

“ From better habitation spurn'd,

Reluctant dost thou rove;
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,

Or unregarded love?

Alas! the joys that fortune brings

Are trifting, and decay, And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.

~ And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,

And leaves the wretch to weep?

“ And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair-one's jest, On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

“ For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said: But while he spoke, a rising blush,

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise

Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms,
The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms.

“ And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn,” she cry'd, « Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where heaven and you reside.

“ But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

My father liv'd beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me:

« To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors came; Who prais'd me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign'd, a fame.

« Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love.

“ In bumblest, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

“ The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refin'd, Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

“The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his; but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine.

For still I try'd each fickle art,

Importunate and vain; And, while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain:

“ Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

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