And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE. WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord, That absence proved his worth,-that absence fix'd Than all a gold Colossus could secure. If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less; What can his vaunted gallery now disclose ? HEBREW MELODIES. ADVERTISEMENT. THE subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a selection of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. SHE walks in beauty, like the night One shade the more, one ray the less, And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT. THE harp the monarch minstrel swept, The King of men, the loved of Heaven, Which Music hallow'd while she wept O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! It soften'd men of iro: mould, It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold, That felt not, fired not to the tone, Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne ! HEBREW MELODIES. ADVERTISEMENT. THE subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a selection of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. SHE walks in beauty, like the night One shade the more, one ray the less, And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT. THE harp the monarch minstrel swept, The King of men, the loved of Heaven, Which Music hallow'd while she wept O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! It soften❜d men of iro: mould, It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold, That felt not, fired not to the tone, Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne! |