ON THE GLASGOW VOLUNTEERS.
HARK-hark! the fife's shrill notes arise! And ardor beats the martial drum; And broad the silken banner flies, Where Clutha's native squadrons come!
Where spreads the green extended plain, By music's solemn marches trod, Thick-glancing bayonets mark the train That beat the meadow's grassy sod.
These are no hireling sons of war! No jealous tyrant's grimly band, The wish of freedom to debar,
Or scourge a despot's injured land!
Naught but the patriotic view
Of free-born valor ever fired, To baffle Gallia's boastful crew,
The soul of northern breast inspired.
'T was thus, on Tiber's sunny banks, What time the Volscian ravaged nigh,
To mark afar her glittering ranks, Rome's towering eagle shone on high.
There, toil athletic on the field
In mock array portrayed alarm, And taught the massy sword to wield,
And braced the nerve of Roman arm.
ON A RURAL BEAUTY IN MULL.
THE wandering swain, with fond delight, Would view the daisy smile
On Pambemara's desert height, Or Lomond's heathy pile.
So, fixed in rapture and surprise, I gazed across the plain, When young Maria met my eyes Amid the reaper-train.
Methought, shall beauty such as this,
Meek, modest and refined,
On Thule's shore be doomed to bless The shepherd or the hind?
From yon bleak mountain's barren side That gentle form convey, And in Golconda's sparkling pride
The shepherdess array.
In studious Fashion's proudest cost Let artful Beauty shine; The pride of art could never boast A fairer form than thine.
Yet, simple beauty, never sigh To share a prouder lot;
Nor, caught by grandeur, seek to fly The solitary cot!
* The concluding stanza is illegible in the manuscript.
VERSES ON THE QUEEN OF FRANCE.
VERSES ON THE QUEEN OF FRANCE.
BEHOLD! where Gallia's captive Queen, With steady eye, and look serene, In life's last awful-awful scene, Slow leaves her sad captivity!
Hark! the shrill horn, that rends the sky, Bespeaks the ready murder nigh; The long parade of death I spy, And leave my lone captivity!
Farewell, ye mansions of despair! Scenes of my sad sequestered care; The balm of bleeding woe is near,— Adieu, my lone captivity!
To purer mansions in the sky
Fair Hope directs my grief-worn eye; Where Sorrow's child no more shall sigh,
Amid her lone captivity!
Adieu, ye babes, whose infant bloom, Beneath Oppression's lawless doom, Pines in the solitary gloom
Of undeserved captivity!
O, Power benign, that rul'st on high! Cast down, cast down a pitying eye! Shed consolation from the sky, To soothe their sad captivity!
Now, virtue's sure reward to prove, I seek emp'real realms above, To meet my long-departed love,- Adieu, my lone captivity!
CHORUS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF JEPHTHES. 411
CHORUS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF JEPHTHES.
GLASSY Jordan, smooth meandering Jacob's flowery meads between;
Lo! thy waters gently wandering Lave the valleys rich and green! When the winter, keenly showering, Strips fair Salem's shade,
There thy current, broader pouring, Lingers in the leafless glade. When, O when, shall light, returning, Chase the melancholy gloom, And the golden star of morning Yonder sable vault illume? When shall Freedom, holy charmer,
Cheer my long-benighted soul? When shall Israel, fierce in armor, Burst the tyrant's base control? Ye that boldly bade defiance,
Proud in arms, to Pharaoh's throne,
Can ye now, in tame compliance, In a baser bondage groan? Gallant Nation! naught appalled you, Bold, in Heaven's propitious hour, When the voice of Freedom called
From a tyrant's haughty power. When their chariots, clad in thunder, Swept the ground in long array; When the ocean, burst asunder, Hovered o'er your sandy way. Gallant race! that, ceaseless toiling, Trod Arabia's pathless wild;
412 CHORUS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF JEPHTHES.
Plains in verdure never smiling, Rocks in barren grandeur piled,— Whither fled, O altered Nation! Whither fled that generous soul? Dead to Freedom's inspiration,
Slaves of Ammon's base control! God of Heaven! whose voice, commanding, Bids the whirlwind scour the deep, Or the waters, smooth expanding, Robed in glassy radiance sleep,- God of Love! in mercy bending,
Hear thy woe-worn captives' prayer! From thy throne, in peace descending, Soothe their sorrows, calm their care! Though thy mercy, long departed, Spurn thy once-loved people's cry, Say, shall Ammon, iron-hearted, Triumph with impunity? If the sword of desolation Must our sacred camp appal, And thy chosen generation Prostrate in the battle fall Grasp, O God! thy flaming thunder; Launch thy stormy wrath around! Cleave their battlements asunder,
Shake their cities to the ground! Hast thou dared, in mad resistance, Tyrant, to contend with God? Shall not Heaven's supreme assistance Snatch us from thy mortal rod? Wretch accursed! thy fleeting gladness Leaves Contrition's serpent sting;
« 前へ次へ » |