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The Rev. George Croly, LL. D., eminent as a theologian and as a writer in various departments of literature, was born in Ireland, and educated at Trinity College in Dublin. He is now rector of St. Stephens, London. His collected “ Poems” were published in two octavo volumes in 1830.
Ye stars ! bright legions that, before all time,-
Camped on yon plain of sapphire, what shall tell
Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him
Who bade through heaven your golden chariots wheel?
Yet who earthborn can see your hosts, nor feel
Immortal impulses-Eternity ?
What wonder if the o'erwrought soul should reel
With its own weight of thought, and the wild eye
See fate within your tracts of sleepless glory lie ?
For ye behold the mightiest. From that steep
What ages have ye worshipped round your King?
Ye heard his trumpet sounded o'er the sleep
Of earth ;-ye heard the morning angels sing.
Upon that orb, now o'er me quivering,
of Adam fixed from Paradise ;
The wanderers of the deluge saw it spring
Above the mountain surge, and hailed its rise
Lightning their lonely track with hope's celestial dyes.
On Calvary shot down that purple eye,
When, but the soldier and the sacrifice,
All were departed.—Mount of Agony !
But Time's broad pinion, ere the giant dies,
Shall cloud your dome.--Ye fruitage of the skies,
Your vineyard shall be shaken !- From your urn
Censers of Heaven ! no more shall glory rise,
Your incense to the Throne !—The heavens shall burn:
For all your pomps are dust, and shall to dust return.
Yet look, ye living intellects.-The trine
Of waning planets, speaks it not decay?
Does Schedir's staff of diamond wave no sign ?
Monarch of midnight, Sirius, shoots thy ray
Undimmed, when thrones sublunar pass away?
Dreams !—yet if e'er was graved in vigil wan
Your spell on gem or imaged alchemy,
The sign when empire's hourglass downwards ran, 'Twas on that arch, graved on that brazen talisman.
FROM A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON, A. R. A.
The sun was sinking on the mountain zone
That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine !
And lovely from the desert rose the moon,
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line,
Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine.
Up Padan-aram's height abrupt and bare
A pilgrim toiled, and oft on day's decline
Looked pale, then paused for eve's delicious air;
The summit gained, he knelt, and breathed his evening prayer.
He spread his cloak and slumbered-darkness fell
Upon the twilight hills; a sudden sound
Of silver trumpets o'er him seemed to swell;
Clouds heavy with the tempest gathered round;
Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound ;
Still deeper rolled the darkness from on high,
volume wound; Above, a pillar shooting to the sky, Below, a mighty sea, that spread incessantly.
Voices are heard—a choir of golden strings,
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose;
Then chariot-wheels—the nearer rush of wings ;
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows,
It thunders—the resplendent gates unclose ;
Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height,
Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crowned brows,
Millions on millions, brighter and more bright,
Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light.
But, two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand,
Like cherub kings, with lifted, mighty plume,
Fixed, sunbright eyes, and looks of high command:
They tell the patriarch of his glorious doom ;
Father of countless myriads that shall come,
Sweeping the land like billows of the sea,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom,
Till He is given whom angels long to see,
And Israel's splendid line is crowned with Deity.
“ Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
Here the evil and the just,
Here the youthful and the old,
Here the fearful and the bold,
Here the matron and the maid,
In one silent bed are laid :
Here the vassal and the king
Side by side lie withering ;
Here the sword and sceptre rust-
Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
Age on age shall roll along,
O'er this pale and mighty throng:
Those that wept then, those that weep,
All shall with these sleepers sleep;
Brothers, sisters of the worm :
Summer's sun, or winter's storm,
Song of peace, or battle's roar,
Ne'er shall break their slumbers more;
Death shall keep his solemn trust
“ Earth to earth, and dust to dust !"
But a day is coming fast,
Earth, thy mightiest and thy last;
It shall come in fear and wonder,
Heralded by trump and thunder ;
It shall come in strife and toil,
It shall come in blood and spoil,
It shall come in empires' groans,
Burning temples, trampled thrones ;
Then, ambition, rue thy lust!
“ Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
Then shall come the judgment sign;
In the east the King shall shine ;
Flashing from heaven's golden gate,
Thousand thousands round his state ;
Spirits with the crown and plume;
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb!
Heaven shall open on our sight,
Earth be turned to living light,
Kingdoms of the ransomed just-
“ Earth to earth, and dust to dust!”
Then shall, gorgeous as a gem,
Shine thy mount, Jerusalem ;
Then shall in the desert rise
Fruits of more than Paradise ;
Earth by angel feet be trod,
One great garden of her God;
Till are dried the martyr's tears,
Through a glorious thousand years.
Now in hope of Him we trust-
“Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
MR. Norton was born at Hingham, near Boston, in 1786. He entered Harvard College in 1800, and was graduated in 1804. He studied divinity, but never became a settled clergyman. He was for a time tutor at Bowdoin College, and afterwards tutor and librarian in Harvard University. In 1819, he became Dexter Professor of Sacred Literature in the latter institution. He resigned that office in 1830, and has since resided at Cambridge as a private gentleman.
Mr. Norton is author of “ The Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospels,” published, in three octavo volumes, in 1848; and of several other theological works, in which he has exhibited great abilities. His poetical writings are remarkable for elegance and a religious dignity and fervor.
WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT.
Farewell! before we meet again,
Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown,
That lie in distant years of pain,
I have to journey on alone;
To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel,
Perchance with joys thou canst not share;
And when we both were wont to kneel,
To breathe alone the silent prayer ;
But ne'er a deeper pang to know,
Than when I watched thy slow decay,
Saw on thy cheek the hectic glow,
And felt at last each hope give way.
But who the destined hour may tell,
That bids the loosened spirit fly?
E’en now this pulse's feverish swell
May warn me of mortality.