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Pour'd their orisons to the cloud-wrapt moon.
Hence, also, after ages into stars
Transform’d their heroes; and the warlike chief,
With fond eye fix'd on some resplendent gem,
Held converse with the spirits of his sires :
With other eyes than these did Plato view
The heavens, and, fill'd with reasonings sublime,
Half-pierced, at intervals, the mystery,
Which with the gospel vanish'd, and made way
For noon-day brightness.



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How beautiful upon the element

The Egyptian moonlight sleeps !
The Arab on the bank hath pitch'd his tent;

The light wave dances, sparkling, o'er the deeps;
The tall reeds whisper in the gale,
And o'er the distant tide moves slow the silent sail.

Thou mighty Nile! and thou receding main,

How peacefully ye rest upon your shores,

Tainted no more, as when from Cairo's towers, Roll'd the swoln corse, by plague! the monster!

slain. Far as the eye can see around,

Upon the solitude of waters wide,

There is no sight, save of the restless tideSave of the winds, and waves, there is no sound.

Egyptia sleeps, her sons in silence sleep!

Ill-fated land, upon thy rest they come

Th’invader, and his host. Behold the deep

Bears on her farthest verge a dusky gloom

And now they rise, the masted forests rise, And gallants, through the foam, their way they

make. Stern Genius of the Memphian shores, awake!

The foeman in thy inmost harbor lies, And ruin o'er thy land with brooding pennon flies.

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Ghosts of the dead, in grim array,

Surround the tyrant's nightly bed !
And in the still, distinctly say,

I by thy treachery bled.
And I, and I, ten thousands cry;

From Jaffa's plains, from Egypt's sands,
They come, they raise the chorus high,

And whirl around in shrieking bands.
Loud, and more loud, the clamors rise,

“Lo! there the traitor! murderer ! lies.” He murder'd me, he murder'd thee,

And now his bed his rack shall be.
As when a thousand torrents roar,
Around his head their yells they pour.
The sweat-drops start, convulsions hand

every nerve in iron band.
'Tis done! they fly, the clamors die,

The moon is up, the night is calm,
Man's busy broods in slumbers lie;

But horrors still the tyrant's soul alarm,

And ever and anon, serenely clear, Have mercy, mercy, heaven! strikes on dull mid

night's ear.


What means yon trampling! what that light

That glimmers in the inmost wood;
As though beneath the felon night,

It mark'd some deed of blood;
Behold yon figures, dim descried
In dark array; they speechless glide.
The forest moans; the raven's scream
Swells slowly o'er the moated stream,
As from the castle's topmost tower,

It chants its boding song alone :
A song, that at this awful hour

Bears dismal tidings in its funeral tone; Tidings, that in some grey domestic's ear Will on his wakeful bed strike deep mysterious fear.

And, hark, that loud report ! 'tis done;

There's murder couch'd in yonder gloom; ; 'Tis done, 'tis done! the prize is won,

Another rival meets his doom.
The tyrant smiles,—with fell delight
He dwells upon the
The tyrant smiles; from terror freed,
Exulting in the foul misdeed,





And sternly in his secret breast
Marks out the victims next to fall.
His purpose fix’d; their moments fly no more,

He points,—the poinard knows its own;
Unseen it strikes,-unseen they die, [groan.
Foul midnight only hears, and shudders at the
But justice yet shall lift her arm on high,
And Bourbon's blood no more ask vengeance from

the sky.


My God, my God, oh, why dost thou forsake me?

Why art thou distant in the hour of fear? To thee, my wonted help, I still betake me,

To thee I clamor, but thou dost not hear.

The beam of morning witnesses my sighing,

The lonely night-hour views me weep in vain, Yet thou art holy, and, on thee relying,

Our fathers were released from grief and pain.

To thee they cried, and thou didst hear their

wailing, On thee they trusted, and their trust was sure; But I, poor, lost, and wretched son of failing,

I, without hope, must scorn and hate endure.

Me they revile; with many ills molested,

They bid me seek of thee, O Lord, redress:

On God, they say, his hope and trust he rested,

Let God relieve him in his deep distress.

To me, Almighty ! in thy mercy shining,

Life's darkand dangerous portals thou didst ope; And softly on my mother's lap reclining, [hope.

Breathed through my breast the lively soul of

Even from the womb, thou art my God, my Father!

Aid me, now trouble weighs me to the ground: Me heavy ills have worn, and, faint and feeble,

The bulls of Bashan have beset me round.

My heart is melted and my soul is weary, [feet!

The wicked ones have pierced my hands and Lord, let thy influence cheer my bosom dreary: My help! my strength ! let me thy presence


Save me! oh, save me! from the sword dividing,

Give me my darling from the jaws of death! Thee will I praise, and, in thy name confiding,

Proclaim thy mercies with my latest breath.

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