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Yet haply there may lie conceal'd
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun,
Some amulet of gems, anneal'd
In upper fires, some tablet seal'd
With the Great Name of SOLOMON,
Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean lies the boon,
The charm, that can restore so soon,
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, o'er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel- flies,
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:
And, near the boy, who tir'd with play
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that,—
Sullenly fierce-A mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!
In which the PERI's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruin'd maid—the shrine profan'd—
Oaths broken-and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests!-there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again!
Yet tranquil now that man of crime,
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit,) look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though, still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of day-light sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,
From SYRIA's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God
From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
Oh 'twas a sight-that Heav'n-that Child—
A scene, which might have well beguil'd
Ev'n haughty EBLIS of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched Man
Reclining there—while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
"There was a time," he said in mild,
Heart-humbled tones-" thou blessed child!
"When young and haply pure as thou,
"I look'd and pray'd like thee-but now—"
He hung his head-each nobler aim
And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
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
"Upon EGYPT's land, of so healing a power,
"So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour
"That drop descends, contagion dies,
"And health reanimates earth and skies!-
"Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,
The precious tears of repentance fall? Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
"One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!" And now-behold him kneeling there
By the child's side, in humble prayer,
While the same sun-beam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,
And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven
The triumph of a Soul forgiven!
"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,
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
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,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe 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,
But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on
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.
MR. CAMPBELL'S ODE ON THE RETIREMENT OF MR. J. P. KEMBLE.
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last Adieu !
Whose image brought th' heroic age
Reviv'd to fancy's view.
Like fields refresh'd with dewy light,
When the Sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past.
And memory conjures feelings up,
That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup,
To" Kemble, fare thee well."
His was the spell o'er hearts,
Which only acting lends-
The youngest of the sister arts
Where all their beauty blends.
For ill can Poetry express
Full many a tone of thought sublime;
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but one glance from Time.
But, by the mighty Actor brought,
Illusion's wedded triumphs come-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.
Time may again revive,
But ne'er efface the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resign'd entire
To the deep sorrows of the Moor!
What English heart was not on fire,
With him at Agincourt?
And yet a majesty possess'd
His transports most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast
The Graces gave their zone.