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Gently, from the western deep,
O ye evening breezes, rise ! O'er the lyre of MEMNON sweep,
Wake its spirit with your sighs.
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.
None but solemn, 'tender tones,
Tremble from thy plaintive wires : Hark! the wounded. WARRIOR groans !
Hush thy warbling !-he expires.
Hush !-while Sorrow wakes and weeps ;
O’er his relics cold and pale, Night her silent vigil keeps,
In a mournful, moonlight veil.
Harp of MEMNON ! from afar,
Ere the lark salute the sky,
BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA.
Soon the Sun's ascending rays,
In a flood of hallow'd fire,
And thy magic soul inspire.
Then thy tones triumphant pour,
Let them pierce the HERO's grave ; Life's tumultuous battle o'er,
O how sweetly sleep the brave !
From the dust their laurels bloom,
High they shoot, and flourish free ; Glory's temple is the tomb !
Death is immortality!
TI'E head that oft this Pillow press'd,
MY FRIEND was young, the world was new ; The world was false, MY FRIEND was true ; Lon 'y his lot, his birth obscure, His fortune hard, MY FRIEND was poor ; To wisdom he had no pretence, A child of suffering, not of sense ; For NATURE never did impart A woaker or a warmer heart. His fervent soul, a soul flame, Consumed its frail terrestrial frame; That fire from Heaven so fiercely burn'd, That whence it came it soon return'd : And yet, O PILLOW ! yet to me, My gentle FRIEND survives in thee ; In thee, the partner of his bed, In thee, the widow of the dead !
On HELICON's inspiring brink,
Ah ! then no more his smiling hours
Knowledge ! worthless at the price,
Then Nature's charms his heart possess'd, And NATURE's glory fli'd his breast : The sweet Spring-morning's infant rays, Meridian Summer's youthful blaze, Maturer Autumn's evening mild, And hoary Winter's midnight wild, Awoke his eye, inspired his tongue ; Tor every scene he loved, he sung. Rude were his songs, and simple truth, Till Boyhood blossom'd into Youth ; Then nobler themes his fancy fired, To bolder flights his soul aspired ; And as the new-moon's opening eye Broadens and brightens through the sky, From the dim streak of western light To the full orb that rules the night ;