The hands of the Moor In his wrath do they bind him? If the savage moor find him. And his eyes fiery glancing! "Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosom'd stranger!" A voice from the desert! My wilds do not hold him; Pale thirst doth not rack, Nor the sand-storm infold him; The death-gale pass'd by, And his breath fail'd to smother, Yet, ne'er shall he wake To the voice of his mother! "Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosom'd stranger!" O lov'd of the lotus Thy waters adorning, Pour, Joliba! pour Thy full streams to the morning! The Halcyon may fly To thy wave as her pillow; Who trusts in thy billow! "Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white bosom'd stranger!" He launch'd his light bark, Our fond warnings despising, Where the day-beams are rising; His wife from her bower May look forth in her sorrow, But he shall ne'er come To her hope of to-morrow! "Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosom'd stranger!" P. M. J. THE THUNDER-STORM. Psalm xxix. BY EDMESTON. SONS of the Mighty-pause and fear! Jehovah's power proclaim ! The glory of his state revere, And bow before his name! C His watery car is rolling by; And hark! his voice of majesty He blasts the cedar, burns the oak, And cleaves the mountains with a stroke. He lays the forest thickets bare, He knows his Maker's voice, and hides Amidst the storm Jehovah reigns, And those whom he will deign to keep, ODE. Written in Winter. BY SCOTT. WHILE in the sky black clouds impend, While chill winds blow, and tempests roll, The scene appals the sight, depresses all the soul! Yet worse, what polar climates share. Vast regions, dreary, bleak, and bare! There, on an icy mountain's height, Seen only by the moon's pale light, Stern Winter rears his giant form, His robe a mist, his voice a storm: His frown the shivering nations fly, And hid, for half the year, in smoky caverns lie. Yet there the lamp's perpetual blaze Yet there the heroic tale or song Can urge the lingering hours along; Yet there their hands, with timely care, * The kajak and the dart prepare, On summer seas to work their way, And wage Ye delicate! reproach no more And scatter'd from her liberal hand, Fair blossoms deck the trees, fair flowers adorn the land. THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS. BY BARNARD. SWEET is the scene when Virtue dies, So fades a summer cloud away; So sinks the gale when storms are o'er; A Greenland fishing-boat. |