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Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,
Now half quench'd appears,
Tamp'd and wavering, and benighted,
Midst my sighs and tears.
Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing—
Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,
Not with age, but woe.
'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art;
But 'tis the too, too long endurance
Of absence that afflicts my heart.
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.
What though untouched by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;
Th’ undoubting heart that breaks with sadness,
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.
o to God in the highest, give praise,
le, ye mighty, with joyful accord;
All-wise are his counsels, all-perfect his ways,
In the beauty of holiness worship the Lord.
The voice of the Lord on the ocean is known,
The God of eternity thundereth abroad;
The voice of the Lord, from the depth of his throne,
Is terror and power;—all nature is awed.
At the voice of the Lord, the cedars are bow'd, "
And towers from their base into ruin are hurl’d;
The voice of the Lord, from the dark-bosom'd cloud,
Dissevers the lightning in flames o'er the world.
See Lebanon bound like the kid on his rocks,
And wild as the unicorn Sirion appear; -
The wilderness quakes with the resonant shocks,
The hinds cast their young in the travail of fear.
The voice of the Lord, through the calm of the wood,
Awakens its echoes, strikes light through its caves;
The Lord sitteth King on the turbulent flood,
The winds are his servants,-his servants the waves.
The Lord is the strength of his people; the Lord Gives health to his people, and peace evermore; Then throng to his temple, his glory record, . . But Oh! when He speaketh, in silence adore. Sheffield, Nov. 1821. J. Montgom ERY.
STANZAS ON PAINTING,
(By Thomas Campbell, Esq.)
Ö, Thou! by whose expressive art,
Her perfect image nature sees,
In union with the graces, start,
And sweeter by reflection please!
In whose creative hand the hues,
Stol'n from yon orient rainbow shine;
I bless thee, Promethean Muse; -
And hail thee brightest of the NIN k.
Possessing more than mortal power;
Persuasive more than poet's tongue,
Whose lineage in a raptured hour,
From Love, the lord of Nature, sprung:
Does Hope her high possession meet 2
Is Joy triumphant, sorrow flown 2
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,
When all we love is all our own.
But hush, thou pulse of pleasure dear;
Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;
Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death #: a keener dart:
Then for a beam of joy to light,
In memory's sad and wakeful eye;
Orbanish from the noon of night,
Her dreams o agony.
The following verses were addressed by Lord Byron to Mr. Thomas Moore, and are in circulation among a few of Mr. Moore's select
friends. Their authenticity is undoubted.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But ere I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate,
And, whatever sky's above,
Here's a heart for any fate.
Tho' the ocean roar around me,
It still shall bear me on;
Tho' a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were it the last drop in the well,
As I gasped on the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
In that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be—Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.
THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE
(By T. Moore, Esq.)
Air–"Staca an Mharaga.” (The Market-stake.)
THE dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking,
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.
Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries—resting never—
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
* To thee, thee, only thee.
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
£ike spells, that nought on earth can break,
Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee. -
SAIL, ON, SAIL ON.
(By the same.)
AIR.—The Hunming of the Ban.
SAIL on, sail on, thou fearless bark– Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark, More sad than those we leave behind. Each wave that passes seems to say “Though death beneath our smile may be, Less cold we are, less false than they, Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee." Sail on, sail on—through endless space— Through calm-through tempest—stop memore: ' The stormiest sea's a resting-place To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or, if some desert land we meet, Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world, that else were sweet— Then rest thee, bark, but not till them,
(An original Poem by James Edmeston),
Sweet is the evening roundelay,
As past the western breeze is sighing;
And PHILoMELA mourns the day,
All time the golden hours are dying;
Sweet is the bower of ER MEN GARDE,
Latticed with silver, and ivory-barred,
For there the evening sunbeams shine
Their loveliest brilliance ere they set,
O'er sweet briar, rose, and eglantine,
And gild its flowery coronet.
But lorn is the bower of ERMEN GARDE;
The snail and the serpent are brooding there,
The dock and the thistle o'erspread the sward,
And flourish around the sweet parterre,
The fox of the forest there creeps to rest,
And on high, the wild bird builds her nest.
In the forest of oak, on the beech crowned hill,
The song of the minstrel is dead and still;