« AnteriorContinuar »
And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture be allowed,
Thou that, rejoicing on thy mid-career,
Not to decay, but unto death hast bowed!
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where Victory ne'er a crown like thine hath won.
Praise, for yet one more name, with power en-
To cheer and guide us onward as we press,
Yet one more image on the heart bestowed,
To dwell there—beautiful in holiness
Thine, Heber, thine, whose memory from the
Shines as the star, which to the Saviour led.
REFT of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn,
Mourn, widowed queen, forgotten Sion, mourn.
Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne,
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone *
While suns unblest their angry lustre fling,
And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring 2
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy
Where now thy might, which all those kings sub-
No martial myriads muster in thy gate;
No suppliant nations in thy Temple wait;
No prophet bards, thy glittering courts among,
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song:
But lawless Force, and meagre Want is there,
And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear;
While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid,
Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade.
Ye guardian saints, ye warrior sons of heaven,
To whose high care Judaea's state was given,
O wont of old your nightly watch to keep,
A host of gods, on Sion's towery steep—
If e'er your secret footsteps linger still
By Siloa's fount, or Tabor’s echoing hill;
If cler your song on Salem's glories dwell,
And mourn the captive land you loved so well;
(For oft, 'tis said, in Kedron's palmy vale
Mysterious harpings swell the midnight gale,
And, blest as balmy dews that Hermon cheer,
Melt in soft cadence on the pilgrim’s ear;)
Forgive, blest spirits, if a theme so high
Mock the weak notes of mortal minstrelsy;
Yet, might your aid this anxious breast inspire
With one faint spark of Milton’s seraph fire,
Then should my Muse ascend with bolder flight,
And wave her eagle-plumes exulting in the light.
O happy once in heaven's peculiar love,
Delight of men below, and saints above;
Though, Salem, now the spoiler's ruffian hand
Has loosed his hell-hounds o'er thy wasted land; .
Though weak, and whelmed beneath the storms
Thy house is left unto thee desolate;
Though thy proud stones in cumbrous ruin fall,