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Yet haply there may lie conceal'd
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun,
With the Great Name of SOLOMON,
Which, spellid by her illumin'd eyes,
An erring Spirit to the skies !
Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ;-
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even In the rich West begun to wither ;When, u'er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
As rosy and as wild as they;
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Upon a brow more fierce than that,-
Yet tranquil now that man of crime,
Though, still, whene'er his eye by chance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of day-light sets,
From SYRIA's thousand minarets !
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
From purity's own cherub mouth,
And how felt he, the wretched Man
And hope and feeling, which had slept
Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept !
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. “ There's a drop," said the Peri, “ that down from the
“ moon “Falls through the withering airs of June
“ Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,
“The precious tears of repentance fall ? “ Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
“ One heavenly drop hath dispellid them all!''
'Twas when the golden orb had set,
“ Joy, joy for ever! my task is done
“ To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad “ Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM,
" And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD!
“ Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die,
“ Farewell ye vanishing flowers, that shone
“In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief, « Oh, what are the brightest that e'er have blown, "To the lote tree, springing by AllA's Throne,
“Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! « Joy, joy for ever!--my task is done “ The Gates are pass’d, and Heav'n is won!"
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,
WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA, IN 1808.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the fue and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid hin, down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory: We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.