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النشر الإلكتروني

From Murder's hand; to smooth the couch of Care,
Extract the thorns, and scatter roses there;

Of Pain's hot brow to still the bounding throb,
Despair's long sigh, and Grief's convulsive sob.

How vast her empire! Turn through earth, through air,
Your aching eye, you find her subjects there;
Nor is the throne of heaven above her spell,
Nor yet beneath it is the host of hell.

To her, Religion owes her holiest flame:

Her

eye looks heaven-ward, for from heaven she came. And when Religion's mild and genial ray, Around the frozen heart begins to play, Music's soft breath falls on the quivering light; The fire is kindled, and the flame is bright; And that cold mass, by either power assail'd, Is warm'd-made liquid—and to heaven exhal'd. Here let us pause :-the opening prospect view :How fresh this mountain air!-how soft the blue, That throws its mantle o'er the length'ning scene! Those waving groves-those vales of living greenThose yellow fields-that lake's cerulean face, That meets, with curling smiles, the cool embrace Of roaring torrents, lull'd by her to rest;That white cloud, melting on the mountain's breast: How the wide landscape laughs upon the sky! How rich the light that gives it to the eye!

Where lies our path?-though many a vista call, We may admire, but cannot tread them all.

Where lies our path?-a poet, and inquire

What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre?
See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow;
See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow;

There Ossa rises; there Olympus towers;
Between them, Tempé breathes in beds of flowers,
Forever verdant; and there Peneus glides
Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides.
Your theme is MUSIC:-Yonder rolls the wave,
Where dolphins snatch'd Arion from his grave,
Enchanted by his lyre:-Citharon's shade
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion play'd
Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth,
Charm'd stones around him, and gave cities birth.
And fast by Hæmus, Thracian Hebrus creeps
O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps,
Whose gory head, borne by the stream along,
Was still melodious, and expired in song.
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell;
There be thy path-for there the Muses dwell.

No, no-a lonelier, lovelier path be mine;
Greece, and her charms, I leave, for Palestine.
There, purer streams through happier valleys flow,
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow.
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm;
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm;
I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dows;
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse :

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In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose,

And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose.
Here arching vines their leafy banner spread,
Shake their green shields, and purple odours shed;
At once repelling Syria's burning ray,

And breathing freshness on the sultry day.

Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing,
Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring;
And here as musing on my theme divine,

I gather flowers to bloom along my line,
And hang my garland in festoons around,
Enwreath'd with clusters, and with tendrils bound;
And fondly, warmly, humbly hope, the Power,
That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower.
Drew living water from this rocky shrine,
Purpled the clustering honours of the vine,
And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither,
To weave a garland, will not let it wither:-
Wond'ring, I listen to the strain sublime,
That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time,
Wafted in grand simplicity along,

The undying breath, the very soul of song.
Down that long vale of years are sweetly roll'd
The mingled voices of the bards of old;
Melodious voices! bards of brightest fire!
Where each is warm, how melting is the quire!
Yet, though so blended is the concert blest,
Some master tones are heard above the rest.

O'er the cleft sea the storm in fury rides : Israel is safe, and Egypt tempts the tides: Her host, descending, meets a watery grave, And o'er her monarch rolls the refluent wave. The storm is hush'd: the billows foam no more, But sink in smiles :-there's Music on the shore. On the wide waste of waters, dies that air Unheard; for all is death and coldness there. But see! the robe that brooding Silence throws O'er Shur reclining in profound repose, Is rent, and scattered, by the burst of praise, That swells the song th' astonish'd Hebrews raise. The desert wak'd at that proud anthem, flung From Miriam's timbrel and from Moses' tongue :1 The first to Liberty that e'er was sung.

But if, when joy and gratitude inspire,

Such high-ton'd triumph walks along the lyre,
What are its breathings, when pale Sorrow flings
Her tearful touches o'er its trembling strings?
At Nebo's base, that mighty bard resigns
His life and empire in prophetic lines.-2
Heaven, all attention, round the poet bends,
And conscious earth, as when the dew descends,
Or showers as gentle, feels her young buds swell,
Her herbs shoot greener, at that fond farewell.
Rich is the song, though mournfully it flows:
And as that harp, which God alone bestows,
Is swept in concert with that sinking breath,
Its cold chords shrink, as from the touch of death.

It was the touch of death !-Sweet be thy slumbers,
Harp of the prophet! but those holy numbers,
That death-denoting, monitory moan,

Shall live, till Nature heaves her dying groan.
From Pisgah's top his eye the prophet threw,
O'er Jordan's wave, where Canaan met his view.
His sunny mantle, and his hoary locks

Shone, like the robe of Winter, on the rocks.
Where is that mantle ?-Melted into air.
Where is the prophet?-God can tell thee where.
So, on the brow of some romantic height,

A fleecy cloud hangs hov'ring in the light,
Fit couch for angels; which while yet we view,
'Tis lost to earth, and all around is blue.

Who is that Chief, already taught to urge
The battle stream, and roll its darkest surge,
Whose army marches thro' retiring seas,
Whose gory banner spreading on the breeze,
Unfolds o'er Jericho's devoted towers,3
And, like the storm o'er Sodom, redly lowers?
The moon can answer; for she heard his tongue,
And cold and pale o'er Ajalon she hung.
The sun can tell :—O'er Gibeon's vale of blood,
Curving their beamy necks, his coursers stood,
Held by that hero's arm, to light his wrath,
And roll their glorious eyes upon his crimson path.
What mine, exploding, rends that smoking ground?
What earthquake spreads those smouldering ruins round?

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