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It told the triumphs of our King,
The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! Since then, though heard on earth no more, Devotion and her daughter Love,
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
To sounds that seem as from above,
In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.
IF THAT HIGH WORLD.
If that high world, which lies beyond
The eye the same, except in tears-
It must be so: 'tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink;
Yet cling to Being's severing link.
To hold each heart the heart that sharce, With them the immortal waters drink,
And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!.
THE WILD GAZELLE.
THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills
A step as fleet, an eye more bright,
And o'er her scenes of lost delight
Inhabitants more fair.
The cedars wave on Lebanon,
But Judah's statelier maids are gone!
More blest each palm that shades those plaine
For, taking root, it there remains
In solitary grace:
It cannot quit its place of birth,
But we must wander witheringly,
And where our fathers' ashes bo,
OH! WEEP FOR THOSE.
OH! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
ON JORDAN'S BANKS.
ON Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray,
There where Thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone!
Oh! in the lightning let Thy glance appear;
SINCE our Country, our God-oh, my sire!
And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
If the hand that I love lay me low,
And of this, oh, my father! be sure-
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,
OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM.
OH! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Away! ye know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
MY SOUL IS DARK.
My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
That sound shall charm it forth again?
"Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
Though thou art fall'n, while we are free Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flow'd from the Disdain'd to sink beneath :
Within our veins its currents be,
Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Thy fall, the theme of choral song