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Proud mistress of the foaming deep,
The queen of traffic stood.
Damascus, Syria, and the Isles
Enriched her gathering store;
The ships of Tarshish bore their spoils,
And Ophir gave the ore.

In broidered robes her virgins shone,
And kings confessed her sway;
The costliest odours were her own,
The nations were her prey.
Beautiful were her graces all,
Yea, of that city's praise

The minstrel sang in bower and hall,
And strangers came to gaze.

Dim is her glory, gone her fame,
Her boasted wealth has fled;
On her proud rock, alas! her shame,
The fisher's net is spread:
The Tyrian harp has slumbered long,
And Tyria's mirth is low,
The timbrel, dulcimer and song

Are hushed, or wake to wo!


BENEATH the brow of yonder steep

The tints of twilight fade:

On Chimberoz' the shadows sleep,
That in the valley played.

Lorn in the saffron-belted west,
The star of evening shines;
The dew is on the plantain's breast,
And gems the curling vines.

My flocks are sleeping peacefully
Secure from nightly ill;
And, watchful guardian over me,
My dog is faithful still.

How sweet the hour of peaceful thought,
How rich retirement's calm!
How free its pleasures, for unbought
Is bland contentment's balm.

In this sequestered woodland scene,
Fond love and peace reside;
While rural health of cheerful mien,
With labour doth abide.

Then give me still my mountain air,
My flock and shepherd's nest;
The loved companion these to share,
And I am truly blest.


PRAYER for the dead! yet pray not thou
For him that in repose is blest;
The calm and coffined sleeper now,
Where weary travellers are at rest:

Unconscious of the smile or tear,
Life's blessed sympathies unknown,
Thy voice falls listless on his ear
Who with decay is left alone.

Prayer for the dead! yet pray not thou
For him that girdeth up to fly,
Where waits prepared for his brow
The glorious chaplet of the sky:
For ever free from human ills,

The billows of this Jordan trod,
He'll drink the satisfying rills

That flow fast by the throne of God.

Prayer for the dead! yet pray not thou
For dwellers 'neath the stormy cloud,
O'er which mild Mercy flings no bow,
The fainting, faithless, and the proud:
For them that in their spirit-powers,
And in immortal madness strong,
Still buffet the unwasting hours,

And shout in agony,

"How long!"

Prayer for the dead! whom from their sleep Time's solemn footfall fails to wake, Whose midnight dreamings, still and deep, The judgment-trumpet may not break:

Yet in whose soul, if there be shed

Light from the Cross, new life begins; They cluster round your hearths-the dead! The dead in trespasses and sins.


SWEET orb of night! I saw thee rise

In cloudless lustre o'er the plain;
I saw thee climb the azure skies,
With radiant splendours in thy train:
I marked thy mildly pensive beam
At midnight's still and hallowed hour;
I watched the fitful, lonely gleam
That played on yonder ivied tower.

Sweet orb of night! often love
When day with all its cares is o'er,
To wander in the silent grove,

And there the Source of Light adore:
O then, how false all else
While wrapt in awe thy course I view,
And see thee mount the starry spheres,
And tread the fields of heavenly blue!


THOU'ST seen the boy in his bright glow
Of spring-like promising;

Thou'st seen him in Guilt's vortex low,
An unnamed loveless thing:

And thou hast, Levite-like, passed on,
Or given the fruitless sigh

To hopes that budded and were gone,
To promises that die.

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