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While the wounds of wo are healing,
While the heart is all resign'd, 'Tis the solemn feast of feeling,
'Tis the sabbath of the mind.
Pensive Memory then retraces
Scenes of bliss forever fled, Lives in former times and places,
Holds communion with the dead.
And when night's prophetic slumbers
Rend the veil to mortal eyes, From their tombs, the sainted numbers
Of our lost companions rise.
You have seen a friend, a brother,
Heard a dear, dead father speak ; Proved the fondness of a mother,
Felt her tears upon your cheek!
Dreams of love your grief beguiling,
You have clasp'd a consort's charms, And received your infant smiling
From his mother's sacred arms.
Trembling, pale, and agonizing,
While you mourn'd the vision gone, Bright the morning star arising
Open's Heaven, from whence it shone. Thither all your wishes bending,
Rose in ecstacy sublime, Thither all your hopes ascending
Triumph'd over death and time,
Thus afflicted, bruised, and broken,
Have you known such sweet relief? Yes, my friend ! and by this token,
You have felt, THR JOY OF GRIEP."?
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.
Let thy numbers, soft and slow,
O'er the plain with carnage spread, Sooth the dying, while they flow
To the memory of the dead.
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 staid his flight,
Ere that Morning left the main : Fatal as the EGYPTIAN night,
When the eldest born were slain !
Lash'd to madness by the wind,
As the Red Sea surges roar, Leave a gloomy gulph behind,
And devour the shrinking shore ;
Thus, with overwhelming pride,
GALLIA's brightest, boldest boast, In a deep and dreadful tide,
Rolld upon the BRITISH host.
Dauntless these their station hela,
Though, with unextinguish'd ire, GALLIA's legions, thrice repelled,
Thrice return’d through blood and fire.
Thus, above the storms of time,
Towering to the sacred spheres, Stand the Pyramids sublime,
Rocks amid the flood of years !
Now the veteran CHIEF drew nigh,
Conquest towering on his crest, Valour beaming from his eye,
Pity bleeding in his breast.
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
High he rode in vengeance dire ; To his friends a leading star,
To his foes consuming fire.
Then the mighty pour'd their breath,
Slaughter feasted on the brave; 'Twas the Carnival of Death !
'Twas the Vintage of the Grave !
Charged with ABERCROMBIE's doom,
Lightning wing'd a cruel ball : 'Twas the Herald of the Tomb,
And the HERO felt the call.
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 ; O'twould cleave the womb of night,
And awake the dead that fell !
Gash'd with honourable scars,
Low in Glory's lap they lie : Though they fell, they fell like stars,
Streaming splendour through the sky.
Yet shall Memory mourn that day,
When with expectation pale Of her soldier far away,
The poor widow hears the tale.
In imagination wild,
She shall wander o'er this plain Rave,--and bid her orphan child
Seek his sire among the slain.