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Even whisper to the idle air ;
Shivered by thy piercing glance,
Pointless falls the hero's lance. Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,* And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string ! At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er : While murky Night sails round on raven-wing, Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar;
Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow Where late she sate and scowledon the black wave below.
The red-cross squadrons madly rage,t
And mow thro' infancy and age ;
Veiling from the eye of day,
Penance dreams her life away; In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, While from each shrine still, small responses rise.
* See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29. + This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, IV. 2.
Hear, with what heart-felt beat, the midnight bell
With choral chantings vainly to aspire
Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,
Hence with the rack and reeking wheel.
While gleams of glory open round,
Her heavenly form, with glowing hand,
Each fine feeling as it flows;
Pure as the mountain-snows :
Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud,
Shrinking from her glance in vain.
Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love.
WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.
THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round,
He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise ; Nor fly, till morning thro’ the shutter streams, And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies.
The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
Ah ! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,