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I'd mount where golden harps proclaim
Emmanuel's dying love,
THE BURIAL OF SIR J. MOORE.
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
The gods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
Not in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ;
With his martial cloak around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow !
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
But we left him alone with his glory.
CCCXIX. H. HART MILMAN, 1791
1 PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. On the margin of the flood With lifted rod the prophet stood; And the summoned east wind blew, And aside it sternly threw The gathered waves that took their stand, Like crystal rocks, on either hand, Or walls of sea-green marble piled Round some irregular city wild.
Then the light of morning lay
On exulting Egypt came,
And her cars on wheels of flame,
Its meridian radiance then
2. SIMON THE JEW TO TITUS. Peace, John of Galilee! and I will answer This purple-mantled captain of the Gentiles; But in far other tone than he is wont To hear about his silken couch of feasting Amid his pamper'd parasites.-I speak to thee, Titus, as warrior should accost a warrior. The world, thou boastest, is Rome's slave; the sun Rises and sets upon no realm but yours; Ye plant your giant foot in either ocean, And vaunt that all which ye o'erstride is Rome's. But think ye, that because the common earth Surfeits your pride with homage, that our land, Our separate, peculiar, sacred land, Portion'd and seal'd unto us by the God Who made the round world and the crystal heavensA wond'rous land, where Nature's common course Is strange and out of use, so oft the Lord Invades it with miraculous interventionThink ye this land shall be an heathen heritage, An high place for your Moloch? Haughty Gentile ! E'en now ye walk on ruin and on prodigy. The air ye breathe is heavy and o'ercharged With your dark gathering doom; and if our earth Do yet in its disdain endure the footing Of your arm’d legions, 'tis because it labours With silent throes of expectation, waiting The signal of your scattering. Lo! the mountains Bend o'er you with their huge and lowering shadows, Ready to rush and overwhelm : the winds Do listen panting for the tardy presence Of Him that shall avenge. And there is scorn, Yea, there is laughter in our fathers' tombs, To think that heathen conqueror doth aspire To lord it over God's Jerusalem ! Yea, in hell's deep and desolate abode, Where dwell the perish'd kings, the chief of earth, They, whose idolatrous warfare erst assail'd The Holy City and the chosen people; They wait for thee, the associate of their hopes And fatal fall, to join their ruin'd conclave.
He whom the Red Sea 'whelmed with all his host,
LINES ON A CUCK00.
Thou wert long time the Ariel of my hope,
To listen to thee on some sunny slope,
Where the high oaks forbade an ampler scope Than of the blue skies upward,--and to sit
Canopied in the gladdening horoscope, Which thou, my planet, flung--a pleasant fit, Long time my hours endeared, my kindling fancy smit. And thus I love thee still—thy monotone,
The selfsame transport flashes through my frame, And when thy voice, sweet sy bil, all is flown
My eager ear, I cannot choose but blame.
O may the world these feelings never tame! If age
o'er me her silver tresses spread, I still would call thee by a lover's name, And deem the spirit of delight unfled, Nor bear, though gray without, a heart to nature dead ! CCCXXI. SHELLEY, 17924-1822.
1. THE ATHEIST. I was an infant when my mother went To see an atheist burned. She took me there :
The dark-robed priests were met around the pile ;
Weep not, child,” cried my mother, “ for that man Has said there is no God.”
2. DEATH AND SLEEP. How wonderful is Death,
Death and his brother Sleep! One, pale as yonder waning moon,
With lips of lurid hue;
The other, rosy as the morn When throned on Ocean's wave
It blushes o'er the world, Yet both so passing wonderful !
Hath then the gloomy Power, Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres,
Seized on her sinless soul ?
Must then that peerless form, Which love and admiration cannot view
Without a beating heart, those azure veins,
Which steal like streams along a field of snow, That lovely outline, which is fair
As breathing marble, perish?
Must putrefaction's breath Leave nothing of this heavenly sight
But loathsomeness and ruin ?
Spare nothing but a gloomy theme,
Or is it only a sweet slumber
Stealing o'er sensation,
Chaseth into darkness ?