Then from the bosom of some thick-wove tree, Breathes in dull note his votive strain to Night, Friend of his daring, season of his joy.
Here could I stay, now list'ning, gazing now, Till all that crowded, busy, life can give Sunk from my view, lost in the splendid vast Of Nature's pure magnificence, that still Will shine and charm for ages. FASHION's hand Which, in the world's gay scenes omnipotent, Makes, and destroys, and the same object bids Delight one moment, and disgust the next, Here can no influence boast; but here true TASTE TO FASHION rarely known, enamour'd roves And rapt, becomes DEVOTION, while the tear Steals the flush'd cheek adown, as on the rose Glitters the dew-drop. Hail again, bright scene! On the moist gale of Eve shall I breathe forth The song of praise to thee, responsive still To Ocean's solemn roar? or shall I stand In SACRED SILENCE bound, Devotion's friend, And list'ning, let my eager ear drink in The distant, mingling sounds that Fancy loves, Till every thought's, thanksgiving, and the lips Can only murmur praise? And lo! my lips In utterance fail, and SILENCE I am thine,
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS. Lord Byron.
FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome
I beheld thee, Oh SION! when rendered to Rome : 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, And forgot for a moment my bondage to come; I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in vain.
On many an eve, the spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed:
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day, But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away; Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign; And scattered and scorn'd as thy people may be,, Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.
WEEP not for those, whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or Earth had profan'd what was born for the skies. Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it,
"Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heav'n has unchain'd it, To water that Eden, where first was its source! Weep not for those, whom the veil of the tomb
In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes, Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or Earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.
Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale, Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now; Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,
And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow;
Oh! then was her moment, dear Spirit, for flying
From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown ;— And the wild notes she warbled so sweetly, in dying,
Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own!
Weep not for her, in her spring-time she flew
To that land, where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd, And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.
IT is the funeral march. I did not think
That there had been such magic in sweet sounds! Hark! from the blacken'd cymbal that dead toneIt awes the very rabble multitude,
They follow silently, their earnest brows
Lifted in solemn thought. "Tis not the pomp And pageantry of death that with such force Arrests the sense, the mute and mourning train, The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse, Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke
A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek
At pride's last triumph. Now these measur'd sounds This universal language, to the heart
Speak instant, and on all these various minds Compel one feeling.
But such better thoughts Will pass away, how soon! and these who here Are following their dead comrade to the grave, Ere the night fall, will in their revelry
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life Unnaturally rent, a man who knew
No resting place, no dear delights at home, Belike who never saw his children's face, Whose children knew no father, he is gone, Dropt from existence, like the weathered leaf That from the summer tree is swept away, Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death Who bore him, and already for her son
Her tears of bitterness are shed: when first He had put on the livery of blood,
She wept him dead to her.
Clay in the potter's hand! one favour'd mind Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man Fram'd with like miracle the work of God, Must as the unreasonable beast drag on A life of labour, like this soldier here, His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain, Be moulded by his fate till he becomes A mere machine of murder.
Who say that this is well! as God has made All things for man's good pleasure, so of men The many for the few! court-moralists, Reverend lip-comforters that once a week Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they Shall have their wealth hereafter, and tho' now Toiling and troubled, tho' they pick the crumbs That from the rich man's table fall, at length In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus. Themselves meantime secure their good things here And dine with Dives. These are they O Lord Who in thy plain and simple gospel see
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined, No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them Who shed their brethren's blood,-blind at noon day As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness!
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