Yes! but, when you had resign'd her, Life and you were reconciled; ANNA left-she left behind her, One, one dear, one only child. But before the green moss peeping, On the mother's lap was laid. Horror then, your heart congealing, Chill'd you with intense despair: Can you call to mind the feeling?— No! there was no feeling there. From that gloomy trance of sorrow When you woke to pangs unknown, How unwelcome was the morrow, For it rose on YOU ALONE! Sunk in self-consuming anguish, Can the poor heart always ache? No! the tortured nerve will languish, Or the strings of life must break. O'er the yielding brow of Sadness While the wounds of woe are healing, While the heart is all resign'd; "T is a solemn feast of feeling, "T is the sabbath of the mind. Pensive memory then retraces Scenes of bliss for ever fled, And when night's prophetic slumbers Felt her tears upon your cheek. Dreams of love your grief beguiling, Trembling, pale, and agonizing, Open'd heaven, from whence it shone You have felt "THE JOY OF GRIEF." THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. At Thebes, in Ancient Egypt, was erected a statue of Memnon, with a harp in his hand, which is said to have hailed with delightful music the rising sun, and in melancholy tones to have mourned his departure. The introduction of this celebrated Lyre, on a modern occasion, will be censured as an anachronism by those only who think that its chords have been touched unskilfully. HARP of Memnon! sweetly strung To the music of the spheres, While the Hero's dirge is sung, Breathe enchantment to our ears. As the Sun's descending beams, Like a ray of heavenly fire: Let thy numbers, soft and slow, Bright as Venus, newly born, Blushing at her maiden charms, Fresh from ocean rose the Morn, When the trumpet blew to arms. O that Time had stay'd its flight, Ere that Morning left the mainFatal as the Egyptian night, When the eldest-born were slain. Lash'd to madness by the wind, Roll'd upon the British host. Dauntless these their station held, Though, with unextinguish'd ire, Thus, above the storms of time, Rocks amid the flood of years. Britain saw him thus advance In her Guardian Angel's form; But he lower'd on hostile France Like the Demon of the Storm. On the whirlwind of the war To his foes consuming fire. Then the mighty pour'd their breath, Slaughter feasted on the brave: "Twas the Carnival of Death; "T was the Vintage of the Grave. Charged with Abercrombie's doom, Felt and raised his arm on high; Victory well the signal knew, Darted from his awful eye, And the force of France o'erthrew. But the horrors of that fight Were the weeping Muse to tell, Oh 't would cleave the womb of night, And awake the dead that fell! Gash'd with honorable scars, Low in Glory's lap they lie; Yet shall Memory mourn that day, In imagination wild, She shall wander o'er this plain, Rave, and bid her orphan-child Seek his sire among the slain. Gently, from the western deep, O ye evening breezes, rise! Breathe enchantment to our ears. None but solemn, tender tones Tremble from thy plaintive wires: Hark! the wounded warrior groans: Hush thy warbling-he expires. Hush! while Sorrow wakes and weeps: O'er his relics cold and pale Night her silent vigil keeps, In a mournful moonlight veil. The poor widow hears the tale. A weaker or a warmer heart. His fervent soul, a soul of flame, On Helicon's inspiring brink, And dives among the deepest strings, Ah! then no more his smiling hours Were spent in Childhood's Eden-bowers; The fall from Infant-innocence, The fall to knowledge drives us thence: Then Nature's charms his heart possess'd, And Nature's glory fill'd his breast: The sweet Spring-morning's infant rays, Meridian Summer's youthful blaze, Maturer Autumn's evening mild, And hoary Winter's midnight wild, Awoke his eye, inspired his tongue; For every scene he loved, he sung. Rude were his songs, and simple truth Till Boyhood blossom'd into Youth; Then nobler themes his fancy fired, To bolder flights his soul aspired; And as the new moon's opening eye Broadens and brightens through the sky, From the dim streak of western light To the full orb that rules the night; Thus, gathering lustre in its race, And hail'd, where'er its footsteps trod, It spake the Muse of Sorrow's child. O Pillow! then, when light withdrew, Soon from those waking dreams he woke, The fairy spell of fancy broke; In vain he breathed a soul of fire Stript of his fondest, dearest claim, And disinherited of fame, To thee, O Pillow! thee alone, While deep he cherish'd in his breast Yet other secret griefs had he, O Pillow! only told to thee: Say, did not hopeless love intrude On his poor bosom's solitude? Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined, In dreams the cruel Fair was kind, That more intensely he might know The bitterness of waking woe. Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd, To thee in midnight groans reveal'd, They stung remembrance to despair; "A wounded Spirit who can bear?" Meanwhile Disease, with slow decay, VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNE, OF LO- "SPIRIT, leave thine house of clay; Dust, be thou dissolved in death!" Thus thy Guardian Angel spoke, As he watch'd thy dying bed; As the bonds of life he broke, And the ransom'd captive fled. "Prisoner, long detain'd below; Prisoner, now with freedom blest; Welcome, from a world of woe, Welcome to a land of rest!" Thus thy Guardian Angel sang, -Ye that mourn a Father's loss, Grief and penury and pain Yet, while travelling in distress Through the world's waste wilderness, And along that vale of tears, Where the Mourner walk'd with GOD. Till his Master, from above, Ye who caught it as it fell, Bind that mantle round your breast Yet, rejoicing in his lot, Grave! the guardian of his dust, Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls- THE THUNDER-STORM. O FOR Evening's brownest shade! Where the breezes play by stealth In the forest-cinctured glade, Round the hermitage of Health: While the noon-bright mountains blaze In the sun's tormenting rays. O'er the sick and sultry plains, And the wanness of despair: Now, in deep and dreadful gloom, Clouds on clouds portentous spread, Black as if the day of doom Hung o'er Nature's shrinking head Lo! the lightning breaks from high, -God is coming!-God is nigh! Hear ye not his chariot-wheels, As the mighty thunder rolls? Nature, startled Nature reels, From the centre to the poles; Tremble!-Ocean, Earth, and Sky, Tremble!-God is passing by! Darkness, wild with horror, forms His mysterious niding-place; Should He, from his ark of storms, Rend the veil, and show his face, At the judgment of his eye, All the universe would die. Brighter, broader lightnings flash, God of Vengeance, from above, Spare! O spare a guilty world! Welcome in the eastern cloud, "Peace on Earth, to Man good-will." Nature! God's repenting Child, See thy Parent reconciled. Hark! the nightingale, afar, Sweetly sings the sun to rest, In the rosy-tinted west: Cool and tranquil is the night, Nature's sore afflictions cease, For the storm, that spent its might, Was a covenant of peace; Vengeance drops her harmless rod : Merey is the POWER OF GOD. ODE TO THE VOLUNTEERS OF BRITAIN, ON THE PROSPECT OF INVASION. O FOR the death of those How beautiful in death The Warrior's corpse appears, Their loveliest native earth In the dear land that gave them birth -But the wild waves shall sweep And the blue monsters of the deep No! they have scaped the waves, By Alfred's Spirit, No! Ye drums awake, ye clarions blow, To arms our Heroes fly; The lowering battle forms Its terrible array; Like clashing clouds in mountain-storms, That thunder on their way, The rushing armies meet; And while they pour their breath, The strong earth shudders at their feet, -Ghosts of the mighty dead! And while they on your ashes tread, The dead to life return; Our Fathers' spirits rise; -My brethren, in your breasts they burn, They sparkle in your eyes. Now lanch upon the foe The lightning of your rage; Strike, strike the assailing giants low, They yield, they break,-they fly; Spirit of Vengeance! rest: Sweet Mercy cries, "Forbear!" She clasps the vanquish'd to her breast, Thou wilt not pierce them there? -Thus vanish Britain's foes From her consuming eye; But rich be the reward of those O'ershadowing laurels deck But lovelier wreaths entwine his neck, Exulting o'er his lot, The dangers he has braved, He clasps the dear ones, hails the cot, Which his own valor saved. Daughters of Albion, weep: Your fathers, husbands, brethren sleep O gently close the eye That loved to look on you; With knots of sweetest flowers Their winding-sheet perfume; And wash their wounds with true-love showers And dress them for the tomb. |