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LAYS OF THE HEART. DAVIDSON, SERLH'S PLACE, CAREY STREET, LONDON. :M0^ LAYS OF THE HEART, BEING AN ODE TO THE MEMORY OF A FATHER, AND OTHER POEMS. FY J. S. Cla.t k " And if the bard's song should awake in the breast Where sincerity glows, a kind wish or a thought, Then his harp's tender chords have not vainly been press'd, Nor the guerdon denied he so earnestly sought.'' LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, & Co. CORNHILL. 1S36. LOAN STACK &>E TO MISS L. E. LANDON, AUTHORESS OF "THE IMPROVISATRICE," &c. &c. Madam, The obliging opinion which you have ex- pressed of my poetic efforts, and the flattering manner in which you have allowed this small volume to be dedicated to you, emanate, I am aware, less from any trivial merit which they may possess, than that kindness of heart and amia- bility of disposition, which, uniting themselves with brilliant genius, have long rendered you the favourite star in our literary hemisphere and the peculiar idol of your own immediate circle, I regret that the outpourings of my humble lyre should be so little worthy of your patronage. 780 DEDICATION. Will you permit me to say a few words on the melancholy which these pages exhibit. To no one can I appeal with greater confidence than your- self in corroboration of the fact, that poesy, like music, is not always an index of the mind ; — that persons of a lively disposition are usually ardent admirers of the plaintive strain ; and that, in this respect, the poet and the individual are not unfre- quently characters the most opposite. The cheer- ful tongue and sunny brow of L. E. L. herself, when compared with the sad and touching pathos of her lute, evidence the fact that the diamond does not sparkle the less when veiled in the darkness of a Golconda mine. That you may long live in the enjoyment of that well-earned admiration which a just and dis- criminating public have thrown around you, is the sincere wish of, Madam, Your obliged and obedient servant, THE AUTHOR. 15, Doughty Street, February 1st, 1836. ADVERTISEMENT. The following Poems were chiefly written a few years since, and some of them have before ap- peared, under different signatures, in various periodicals. At the request of several esteemed and valued friends, the author has been induced to publish them in the present form. Attention to graver duties must be his excuse for such in- accuracies as the volume may contain. CONTENTS. PAOB Ode to the Memory of a Fatheii 1 Kate of the Vale Fare thee Well 12 The bruised Reed 14 Memory's Wreath 21 I miss thee 24 Early Recollections 27 Death 30 The Infant Praying 33 On the Death of W. H., Esu. 35 Ryde 3it " We never meet again " 41 Wake, Lion of England ! 45 The Song of Isaiah 47 To Thirza, dying 50 Sincerity's Tribute 52 Nora ... 54 " Narrow is the Way which leadeth unto Life " 58 Translation of an Epitaph in Pf.re la Chaise, Paris 5(5 My Sister dear 50 Epigram §9 b X CONTENTS. Why mourn for the Dead? 70 My Father's Name ... ... ... ... 72 Requiem ... .„ .„ ... ... 75 Woman ... ... ... ... ... ... 77 The Factory Girl ... ... ... ... 80 To 83 To Lilla, weeping ... ... ... ... 85 To Ella ... ... ... ... ... ... 87 To Eliza ... ... ... ... ... 89 Then be it so ... ... ... ... ... 90 The Poet's Farewell to his Harp ... ... 92 Love ry Arithmetic ... ... ... ... 95 LAYS OF THE HEART. ODE TO THE MEMORY OF A FATHER. " He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." Shakespeare. When by thy couch we stood, and wept to see The Father dying, and the Friend, in thee, How throbb'd the heart with sorrow newly born! With what new anguish was the bosom torn! Tears, burning tears, bedew'd the pallid cheek, And spoke— what language had not pow'r to speak. To Heav'n we prayed, but found no pity there ; Weak was the wish, and unsubdued the pray'r; B 2 ODE TO THE MEMORY " Oh, God of love ! affection's voice forgive, Thy will he done — but let thy servant live! " In vain shall reason's pow'r attempt to bind The march of feeling and the flow of mind: True on the lip the fitful smile may glow, And veil the sadness of the wreck below; But, as the mountain stream, when curb'd its tide, Lives, though repell'd, and flows, though turn'd aside, Still by the midnight lamp, in silent flow, The mourner hails the luxury of woe ; Still gives to Nature unrestrained control, And breaks the bursting bondage of the soul. Dear honour'd saint! from yonder bright abode, The seat of angels and the throne of God, OF A FATHER. 3 I would not call thy rescu'd soul to share My hitter portion of continued care. Down the rough stream my wearied vessel glides Her ever wayward course, 'mid doubtful tides; No pilot's hand to guide her dang 'rous way, While rocks arise and beacons lure astray; — Oh ! wonder not that when mine eyes repose On yon calm covert of terrestrial woes, Where, freed from pain, my heart's first treasure feels No more the pang of sublunary ills — Oh ! wonder not that I that tomb would share, And burst " the silver cord " that binds me here — As a pure spirit quit my suiT'ring clay, Spring from a world of woe, and bear away! But thou art safe above the rugged blast, And, thanks to God! thy trembling course is past, 4 ODE TO THE MEMORY When clouds obscure hang o'er my feeble form, I think on thee, and dare the coming storm ; Strike, strike ! I cry, unbend your threat'ning brow, He's safe in Heav'n! — You cannot injure now. Still is the heart that vice could ne'er subdue; Calm is the pulse that never beat untrue ; That breast is cold, with love and honour fraught; Silent the tongue that heav'nly wisdom taught, Led the young soul through life's enshackled way To paths of peace and everlasting day ! And as the lord of light, from labour free, Sinks to repose beneath the western sea ; Or as the mariner, in storms distress'd, Steers his lov'd bark, but longs to be at rest ; So when the firstlings of the flock had grown In strength and stature, and his work was done ; OF A FATIIl-R. 5 When childhood's phantom-joys had ceased to charm, And riper age could better brave the storm, His wearied spirit left her frail abode, Plum'd her white pinions for the realms of God, Shed o'er the fading earth a pitying tear, And sprang celestial to the vaults of air! But thy pure mantle, dearest shade, bestow On those lov'd relics thou hast left below ; May they in ties indissoluble rove, United ever in the bond of love ; Gazing, through life, on yon etherial shore, Where kindred spirits meet to part no more ; Where, freed, at length, from sublunary pain, Clasp'd in thy arms, and lov'd by thee again, 6 ODE TO THE MEMORY Hand join'd in hand, together we may rise, With those who fled before thee, to the skies ; With loud hosannahs tread the blissful sphere, And quaff the waters of redemption there ! And thou, who, by his side in weal or woe, Wert faithful ever — dearest, best, below — Not like the Carian queen of old, who shed The richest off 'rings on her partner dead, (As though the proud oblations she bestow'd Could bribe her pardon from a frowning God,) Thy proofs of love in life no requiem need, These of eternal joy shall sow the seed, Shall bloom for ever on that happy shore — Those bow'rs of bliss where hearts shall break no more ! OF A FATHER. And if, at times, we seek the sacred earth Where sleep the relics of departed worth, We will not, Mother, to his mem'ry rear Th' emblazon'd stone, to tell what dust lies there ; There needs no sculptur'd line of borrow'd bard His virtues to proclaim, his worth record ; On the cold marble be his name impressed — The tears of all who knew him tell the rest. 'Tis past, 'tis gone ;— with floods of latent grief My heart was full, and sought and found relief; My mournful harp in solemn silence long Had hush'd its notes, and on the willow hung; But when with trembling hand I woke its lays, Swept its dull chords, and sung a Parent's praise, Tears of pent anguish first began to flow, And pitying Nature burst the gates of woe. O MEMORY OF A FATHER. And now farewell — the pleasing toil is past, The strain is o'er — these chords have breath'd their last; But while a pulse, to fond emotion free, Beats in this heart for excellence and thee, Still shall the bard to lonely shades repair, And, (though unseen descend the silent tear,) Truth, Virtue, Friendship, lost Affection, mourn, And drop a filial tribute on thy urn ! January, 1828. <) KATE OF THE VALE. And see ye the form by yon streamlet reclining, And hear ye the music that rides on the gale ? Tho' lorn be thy lyre, and unheard thy complaining, Yet angels weep o'er thee, poor Kate of the Vale ! Tho' scorned by the world for thy one dereliction, The God of compassion still smiles in the spheres ; And he who beholds the poor child of affliction Can never reject the poor penitent's tears. As the rays of the sun o'er the rose-blossom straying, Dispel the mild dew-drop that hangs on the tree, So the' sun-beams of pity around thee are playing, And mercy, sweet maiden, sits smiling on thee ! 10 KATE OF THE VALF. Oh ! curst be the fiend that could leave thee in sorrow, And curst be the heart that could bear to betray ! May hope be to him a continued to-morrow, And fraud and despair strew their thorns on his way. Thy reason has left her own flow'r-bedeck'd dwelling, And fled is the lustre that beam'd in thine eye, And soothless and sad is the tale thou art telling The wild harp that wings its sweet numbers on high. But angels shall guard thee, poor child of trans- gression, The Being that wounds thee can also restore ; " Uncondemned " be thy crime ; may the voice of compassion Command thee to " go and be sinful no more."' ***** KATE OF THE VALE. 1 1 By the side of yon streamlet whose cypress o'er- shadows A moss-covered grave that sleeps silently there, Where nightly the bulbul awakens the meadows, And chants a sweet strain to her own beaming star, No useless pedantic memento discloses The tenant that slumbers that covert within, No pageantry gilds the cold clay that reposes, No soft foot of friendship is heard in the glen. The blue starry welkin alone shall embower it, And true lovers weep o'er the sorrowful tale ; One line of lament shall affection raise o'er it — " Peace, peace to thy ashes, poor Kate of the Vale ! " 12 FARE THEE WELL. Fare thee well ! we met in sorrow, Fare thee well ! we part in pain ; Long the night and drear the morrow Ere we two shall meet again. Many a word of anguish spoken, Many a tear of sorrow shed ; Many a heart the purest broken, The fairest fallen, the dearest dead. Perhaps the bosom fondly beating, Beating, too, alone for thee, Like its hopes, its friendships, fleeting, Pulseless soon, and cold shall be. FARE THEE WELL. iS Yet farewell ! kind Heaven attend thee, May the God of mercy bless ; He, the orphan's friend, befriend thee, " Father of the Fatherless." Fate may part us, death may sever, Clouds of darkness hover near; Hope still points to realms of ether, — Heav'n shall bless our meeting there. 11. THE BRUISED REED. There sat a young and fair-hair'd boy By that new burial-stone ; In sable garb bis limbs were clad, And he was there alone : The tear of latent woe bedew'd The lustre of his eye ; And piteous was the look he gave To greet the passer-by. " What ails thee now my pretty one; What can thy sorrow be ? Thy playmates in the neighbouring field Are laughing merrily ; THE BRUISED REED. 15 And thou, my child, say why dost thou Thus solitary pine? Sure tears were made for riper age, And not such years as thine." " Oh ! let me tarry here," he cried, "Far, far from mirth apart; Kind stranger, you can little know The agony of heart, — The pang that forced enjoyment gives When only tears would flow, The mantling of the cheek to hide The bitter wreck below. " I had a father once — he died And left me all alone ; 16 THE BRUISED REED. For what can be the world to me — Or life — now he is gone ? A mother's love I never knew, (She died to give me birth,) And I — a helpless child — am left ' A stranger upon earth.' " When sickness weighs my spirit down Or sorrow dims my brow, Oh ! who shall heal me with his smile, Or who shall cheer me now I No heart responsive beats to mine, No eyes their vigils keep ; I can but mourn my lot— and yet They chide me if I weep. THE BRUISED REED. 17 " When late I sought my once-lov'd home, (And lov'd and cherish'd yet, For all its by-gone scenes of joy, Can I so noon forget ?) Methought my ranld'd heart would break, The harsh reproof to hear — Its door, alas! was closed to me, I was ' a stranger' there ! " But as the dove, when sought in vain Some rest-place for her feet, Flew wearied to the peaceful ark, Her sure, her safe retreat, So, often stealing from the world, To these still shades I come, In fancy talk with him beneath, And make his grave my home. 18 THE BRUISED REED. " Then, pitying stranger, wonder not Why these sad tears should flow, For Heaven, in mercy, sends their balm To lull the throbs of woe ; Smiles were not made for those who mourn, Should one these lips dispart, The gleam that lighted up my cheek, Would break my bursting heart." He ceased, and I — I could not soon That little mourner leave, I knew 't were vain to chide his woe, Or bid him cease to grieve : I spoke to him of other joys That God to man hath given ; He only answered with a sigh, And pointed up to Heaven. THE BRUISED REED. 19 " True, true," I cried, " and would you woo I lis spirit from its sphere, Call it from springs of bliss to quaff The cup of anguish here ? A little while and you shall join The angel-form you mourn, — Yes, we shall go to him, although To us he'll ne'er return. " And what is life, that we should wish To lengthen out its span ? Oh ! why prolong the fleeting hours That form the age of man ? Is it so sweet to bear the thorns, While all the flow' rets die ? Man meets existence with a tear, And ends it with a sigh."* * The departure of the spirit is generally indicated jby a long deep sigh. C 2 20 THE BRUISED REED. Alas ! 'twas not for words to move The calm but fixed despair Which clouded o'er that youthful brow, And fixed its shadows there: He seem'd a lone and helmless bark, By winds and waters driven ; His only port the bourne beneath, His only hope — in Heaven ! ***** I passed again that silent grave, The orphan child was gone ; Another line was sketched upon The snow-white burial stone : And kneeling by the grassy sod, I breath'd a fervent prayer To Him who called him to the skies, To join his Father there ! 21 MEMORY'S W R E A T H. (ADDRESSED TO A SISTEll.) " Do you remember them ? " Remember them?— yes, I remember them well, They were days of enchantment that ne'er can return, And deep in my heart do I treasure the spell, And oft drop a tear on their funeral urn. Oh ! were they not sweet ? and do you, too, re- member The beautiful garden we treasured so much ? 'Twas summer-time then, but the blast of December Soon came, and the roses all died at its touch ! ~~ MEMORY S WREATH. And do you, too, remember the dear happy faces That crowded the bench 'neath the apple-tree there? 'Tis true they are gone, but my memory traces Each feature and voice in that varied parterre. And do you, too, remember when fondly conversing, As children, we roved through the flow'r-cover'd glen, And oh ! how delighted we were in rehearsing The innocent hymns that enchanted us then ? And do you, too, remember the infantine prayers ? The bed at whose foot night and morning we knelt ? Alas ! could I buy with an ocean of tears A spirit as pure as that moment I felt ! memory's wreath. 23 Those hours, they are gone; — but the fond recollec- tion — The bliss, that the thought of those clays can impart, Can only expire with the power of reflection, Can moulder alone with the mould'ring of heart. 24 I MISS THEE. I miss thee when at matin prayer Thy vacant place I see ; I miss thee in the daily toil I used to share with thee : Thy smiling lip is cold and still, Thy step is heard no more, And all is dark and dreary now, Where all was joy before. I miss thee when the sabbath bell Calls to the )ss&c of pray'r ; I miss the voice in sweet response That used to echo there : I MISS THEE. 25 And when the sacred volume doth Our vesper thoughts engage, Who reads us now its heav'nly truths? Who now expounds its page ? I miss thee in thv vacant seat Beside the cheerful hearth ; I miss thee in the circle where Thy look alone gave mirth : And when unseen the widow weeps, The orphan pleads in vain, And pride and av'rice turn aside — Oh ! how I miss thee then ! I miss'd thee at the festive board, When Christmas friends drew near ; QG I MISS THEE. And when the jocund glee went round, I could not hide the tear ; They sung thy song of other times, With chorus mild and deep ; I miss'd thy voice in concert there, And stole away to weep ! 2", EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. ADDRESSED TO , ESQ. " I cannot but remember sucb things were, And were most dear to me." Shakespeare. I came to the scenes of my earliest youth, To the green sunny spot where my infancy flew, While my heart was yet warmed by the sunshine of truth, And my pains and my sorrows were fleeting and few. And memory pictured the fair things of old — The hearth were my fondest affections were set — And it seem'd as tho' faces now pallid and cold Were still at the casement and greeting me yet. 28 EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. Methought in that moment's delirium I felt The hand of a father, a mother's warm kiss, While sisters press'd on from the home where we dwelt To welcome my steps to that circle of bliss. Again the fond look of affection was there, The song and the laughter went merrily round, — Such song and such laughter as seraphs may hear, Nor blush as to Heaven they carry the sound. The dream was ecstatic! it seem'd as though time Had turn'd to revisit the joys of the past: Oh! why did I wake from that vision sublime, Why revel in thoughts too etherial to last? EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 29 For soon, very soon, did I rouse from the snare That mem'ry had spun from the pleasures of yore: I came to my home, but a stranger was there — The " Hall of my Forefathers " knew me no more. The many I lov'd when in life's early morn Were changed, or had fled to th' abode of the just; And I, even I, was so weary and lorn I wished that with theirs I could mingle my dust. But thou, like the sun from its drearisome tomb, Arose on my solitude faithful and true; And if tears would still fall for my desolate home, I felt that I yet could be happy with you. so DEATH A DREAM. Methought 'twas midnight, and around my couch The flickering gleams of a small taper play'd That but made darkness visible, and I — Yes, I was dying; sinking, worn and faint, Into the grim recesses of the grave. Oh, God! how terrible did seem that hour, That quivering of heart, those sickly qualms, The chilliness that crept o'er all my limbs, Benumbed my pow'rs and chain'd my spirit down, Trembling and quaking at I scarce knew what. And there were weeping friends around my bed, Gazing intently on my sunken eye, DEATH. And whispering alternate hopes and fears. And then they spoke of deeds of kindness done, Of charities that graced my greener days; Forgetting, in their fond record of these, The darker shadows of life's fading lamp. And thou wert there, Maria, thou wert there, And, licensed then, didst pour thy flood of grief, Wipe from my lip the struggling dews of death, And bade me live for thee. The love which ne'er- Ne'er till that hour had prov'd its power intense, Now burst in full refulgence from thy heart. That look, that pressure, that soul-lifted pray'r, Oh! they had almost check'd the arm of Death, As erst of old, 'mid Israel's host 'twas stay'd By the soft balm distill'd from angels' wings. 31 32 DEATH. Anon, my breath grew thicker, and mine eyes Did wander vacantly ; my pulse was calm, But my full heart could scarce contain the load That press'd upon it. I essay 'd to speak — To breathe a pray'r — a fond, a last farewell ; But my dried tongue refused its office, press'd Down to inaction by th' o'erburdened heart. Thick darkness seem'd approaching — every sense Grew less and less in vigour — a chill sweat Bedew'd my forehead — and my cold limbs felt As though a heavy burden weigh'd them down ; The room swam round — mine eyelids quiver'd, And, save a chime like that of distant harping, I could hear nor voice nor sound. This grew faint And fainter still, till, as a babe to rest, I sank beneath a dull, unconscious sleep. 33 THE INFANT PRAYING. I came to the spot where the young Christian knelt, And her gaze was fast fixed on the star-beaming sky; And I knew in the depth of that moment she felt — What words cannot utter nor kingdoms supply. So pure and so humble, so lovely and mild, Her eyes beaming rapture, her lips breathing pray'r; Oh ! the lost one might gaze on that heav'n-born child Till repentance burst forth in one heart-burning tear. Hail, fair one and faithful ! may seraphs sustain thee And guide thy young steps in the pathway of truth; 34 THE INFANT PRAYING. May God and his glory for ever retain thee, — " Remember " him still " in the days of thy youth." In the spring-time how sweet to behold the tree bending With blossoms unnumber'd — the pride of the vale ! But rude are the tempests around us portending, And many a bud may be nipped in the gale. But thou, in temptation may mercy relieve thee, Defend thee in youth, and sustain thee in years ! And oh ! may the God whom thou servest receive thee, — His child upon earth, — to be blest in the spheres ! 35 ON THE DEATH OF W. H., Esq. We stand upon thy tomb, bright shade, Yet dare not mourn for thee ; We would not woo thee from the realms Of pure felicity. Thy lot is cast; in light divine, From pain and sorrow free, Eternal glories crown thee now : — " We must not mourn for thee." 'Tis true we miss the parent's smile That cheer'd our hearts of yore; 'Tis true we miss the fond embrace That we shall feel no more : D 2 36 ON THE DEATH OF W. H., ESQ. E'en now each manly step we hear We fancy thine must be ; But though too soon the phantom flies, " We must not mourn for thee." We talk of thee the live-long day, We think of thee by night ; In dreams we view thy beaming eyes In all their mild blue light ; We seem to see thee good and kind As thou wert wont to be ; We wake — the heart would burst — but no, " We must not mourn for thee." Oh ! could we view thy dwelling now, Amid that angel-throng, ON THE DEATH OF W. H v ESQ. 37 Pierce the blue heav'ns, behold thy bliss, And hear thy seraph-song ; — Could we hut feel thy perfect joy, Thy bright redemption see, How should we dash the tear away, How blush to " mourn for thee ! " 38 RYDE. Dear scenes of my childhood, all beautiful Ryde, Again did I wander thy smooth beach beside, — That beach where so oft the blue waters have roll'd, And play'd round my feet in the bright days of old. The copse with wild woodbine and roses o'ergrown, How sweetly it tells of the hours that are gone ; Of friends that, alas ! are now breathless and cold, That stray'd thro' its paths in the bright days of old! The ocean-lav'd pier, with its exquisite view, The shell-cover'd grot, and the green dover,* too, * See Appendix. RYDE. 39 Oh ! dear are the thoughts which those scenes can unfold — The thoughts of the past — of the bright days of old. They talked of improvements, they told me to see The church and the dwellings all novel to me ; But pain'd was my heart at the change they extoll'd, And sick'ning I turn'd to the things that were old. The dear, hallow'd home of my school-days I sought, And my heart throbb'd anew as I near'd the sweet spot ; But my day-dream soon fled like a tale that is told, For a change had pass'd o^r the bright things of old. The play-ground had vanished — a garden was there, But weeds had grown o'er it, its borders were bare ; 40 RYDE. I reck'd not the ruin, — 'twas dear to behold — For it seem'd to weep ©-'-er the bright things of old. Blest spot ! in thy bosom all tranquilly flew Winged moments, the brightest the bard ever knew ; And still shall this heart ever joy to enfold A dream of the past — of the bright days of old. 41 "WE NEVER MEET AGAIN." Oh, yes ! I feel 'tis hard to part, 'Tis death to breathe adieu ; Visions of past enjoyment start To bind me still to you. We met — we lov'd — our hearts seem'd join'd By some celestial chain ; Alas ! how frail its links we find — " We never meet again ! And yet 'tis sweet, at ev'ning's shade, To linger o'er each scene, — To stray alone where we have strayed To think on what has been. 42 "we never meet again." But sad as roses o'er the tomb Where love and worth are lain, These scenes but mock our changeless doom- " We never meet again." The harp has lost its tuneful tone, The hall its wonted glee, The birds that knew thy hand alone Now die for want of thee. No more thy flow'rets flourish fair On yon neglected plain, All, all are wither'd, nipp'd, and sear — " We never meet again ! " I love to seek the woodbine bow'r, Thine own enchanting spot, "we never meet again." 43 Where dwells a voice on ev'ry flow'r, On ev'ry leaf a thought : Methinks I hear thy lute once more, Again thy fav'rite strain, — That lute is still — that strain is o'er — " We never meet again ! " The sun that met the morn in tears Smiles on departing day; Our lot is cast — nor months nor years Shall view our grief decay: We drank of joys that could not last, We felt and find them vain ; The meteor-beam too quickly past, — " We never meet again ! " 44 "we never meet again." Adieu, adieu, my breaking heart Nor peace nor hope can feel; Its wound defies all human art — It will not, cannot heal: Yet if there be a spot of bliss Where joys eternal reign, Heav'n will unite our souls — but here " We never meet again." 45 WAKE, LION OF ENGLAND!* Wake, Lion of England ! arouse from thy slumbers, Shake, shake thy proud mane and prepare for the fight ; Thy country demands thee, ere, borne down by numbers, Her day-spring of glory shall vanish in night. Shall the tri-colour'd emblem of treason dare hover O'er thee, the earth's mistress — the queen of the seas, Shall the rag of rebellion in mock'ry wave over The flag that so long " braved the battle and breeze !" * See Appendix. 46 WAKE, LION OF ENGLAND ! Awake! oh awake ! in the pride of thy power, Let the voice of thine anger in thunders resound ; Revolution may shrink at the depth of thy roar, Thy sons may yet turn as they start at the sound. Go point to the waves where their forefathers fought, Go tell of the blessings their bravery won; Will they spurn tke proud trophies their hearts' blood has bought ? Shall the fame of the sire be forgot by the son ? Rouse, Lion of England ! or stripped of her glory, Britannia shall be as the proud one of yore ; Fallen, fallen to the dust, and renown'd but in story, All nations shall fear her, shall woo her no more ! V 47 THE SONG OF ISAIAH. A rARArilRASE FROM FORTIETH CHAPTER OF ISAIAH. Fired with prophetic zeal, the holy man Swept his impassioned harp, and thus began: — Fear no more Israel th' avenging rod, Oh ! comfort ye my people, saith your God ; Speak unto Salem peace ; behold at last Her strife is ended and her warfare past ! No more the hills shall mourn in steril woe, See in the wild the verdant pasture grow ; O'er the par^h'd sod the limpid stream shall bound, And smiling plenty decl: the steril ground : The desert paths the bending vine shall bless, The full-ear'd corn shall crown the wilderness; 48 SONG OF ISAIAH. The silent vales shall pour their grateful lays, And the still woods be eloquent in praise ! Oh, Zion ! teeming with celestial joy, Let the blest tale your grateful harp employ ; Quick to the mountains speed with willing feet, Go seek ye trembling Israel's dark retreat ; Lift up thy voice, oh, Salem ! in the height, Shout the glad tidings of eternal might ; Say mercy smiles upon the bleeding sod, Say unto Judah's tribes — Behold your God! All flesh is grass, and all its beauty frail As the fair flow'r that withers in the gale ; In health and strength man ushers in the morn, The worm preys on him ere the morrow dawn ; Where then his worth, his loveliness, and grace? Well may the voice re-echo — " Flesh is grass !" SONG OF ISAIAH. 49 Fountain of Love ! ere first the living light Flashed forth its splendour on the gloom of night, Thou wast ! and when all nature shall decay, System on system mould'ring, pass away, — When the bright sun shall blacken in its sphere, And whirling planets cleave the liquid air, — Thou, thou, shalt stand in majesty sublime, And wave thy sceptre o'er the tomb of time ! 50 TO THIRZA, DYING. Yes, 'twill be over soon ; that trembling eye, Beaming with shadowy lustre, as the corse Of faded beauty in the charnel vault, Will soon be closed for aye ! The fev'rish glow That, playsome, woos e'en now thy pallid cheek, Like eve's calm blush meand'ring o'er the west, Beaming more faintly at the slow approach Of night's dull leaden car, will soon expire. 'Tis sweet, 'tis melancholy sweet, to gaze Upon thy sunken cheek — to catch each word, Teeming with holy inspiration, till Imagination paints thee even now, LENDING TO THIRZA, DYING. V^f> ^ s. Charles M. B . THE END. Davidson, Printer, Serle's Place, Carey Street, London.