ページの画像
PDF
ePub

Then from the bosom of some thick-wove tree, Breathes in dull note his votive strain to Night, Friend of his daring, season of his joy.

Here could I stay, now list'ning, gazing now,
Till all that crowded, busy, life can give
Sunk from my view, lost in the splendid vast
Of Nature's pure magnificence, that still
Will shine and charm for ages. FASHION's hand
Which, in the world's gay scenes omnipotent,
Makes, and destroys, and the same object bids
Delight one moment, and disgust the next,
Here can no influence boast; but here true TASTE
TO FASHION rarely known, enamour'd roves
And rapt, becomes DEVOTION, while the tear
Steals the flush'd cheek adown, as on the rose
Glitters the dew-drop. Hail again, bright scene!
On the moist gale of Eve shall I breathe forth
The song of praise to thee, responsive still
To Ocean's solemn roar? or shall I stand
In SACRED SILENCE bound, Devotion's friend,
And list'ning, let my eager ear drink in
The distant, mingling sounds that Fancy loves,
Till every thought's, thanksgiving, and the lips
Can only murmur praise? And lo! my lips
In utterance fail, and SILENCE I am thine,

ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS. Lord Byron.

FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome

I beheld thee, Oh SION! when rendered to Rome : 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,

And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in vain.

On many an eve, the spot whence I gazed

Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed:

While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.

And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign;
And scattered and scorn'd as thy people may be,,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

T. Moore.

WEEP not for those, whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or Earth had profan'd what was born for the skies. Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it,

"Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,

And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heav'n has unchain'd it,
To water that Eden, where first was its source!
Weep not for those, whom the veil of the tomb

In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes,
Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or Earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,
Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now;
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow;

Oh! then was her moment, dear Spirit, for flying

From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown ;— And the wild notes she warbled so sweetly, in dying,

Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own!

Weep not for her, in her spring-time she flew

To that land, where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd, And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

Southey.

IT is the funeral march. I did not think

That there had been such magic in sweet sounds! Hark! from the blacken'd cymbal that dead toneIt awes the very rabble multitude,

They follow silently, their earnest brows

Lifted in solemn thought. "Tis not the pomp
And pageantry of death that with such force
Arrests the sense, the mute and mourning train,
The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse,
Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke

A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek

At pride's last triumph. Now these measur'd sounds
This universal language, to the heart

Speak instant, and on all these various minds
Compel one feeling.

But such better thoughts
Will pass away, how soon! and these who here
Are following their dead comrade to the grave,
Ere the night fall, will in their revelry

Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew

No resting place, no dear delights at home,
Belike who never saw his children's face,
Whose children knew no father, he is gone,
Dropt from existence, like the weathered leaf
That from the summer tree is swept away,
Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death
Who bore him, and already for her son

Her tears of bitterness are shed: when first
He had put on the livery of blood,

She wept him dead to her.

We are indeed

Clay in the potter's hand! one favour'd mind
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore
The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man
Fram'd with like miracle the work of God,
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on
A life of labour, like this soldier here,
His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain,
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes
A mere machine of murder.

And there are

Who say that this is well! as God has made
All things for man's good pleasure, so of men
The many for the few! court-moralists,
Reverend lip-comforters that once a week
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and tho' now
Toiling and troubled, tho' they pick the crumbs
That from the rich man's table fall, at length
In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus.
Themselves meantime secure their good things here
And dine with Dives. These are they O Lord
Who in thy plain and simple gospel see

All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined,
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them
Who shed their brethren's blood,-blind at noon day
As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness!

« 前へ次へ »