BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. W SAUL. ARRIORS and Chiefs! should the shaft or the sword Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path: Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath! Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, Farewell to others, but never we part, Heir to my royalty, son of my heart! Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day! THOU whose spell can raise the dead, Bid the prophet's form appear. Samuel, raise thy buried head! King, behold the phantom seer! »> Earth yawned; he stood the centre of a cloud: His hand was withered, and his veins were dry; His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there, SAMUEL. Why is my sleep disquieted?" << Who is he that calls the dead? << Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:- << Such shalt thou be, such thy son. " Then we mix our mouldering clay. << To thy heart, thy hand shall guide: Crownless, breathless, headless fall, « Son and sire, the house of Saul! »› WE SAT DOWN AND WEPT. I. WE sate down and wept by the waters Of Babel, and thought of the day And ye, oh her desolate daughters! II. While sadly we gazed on the river III On the willow that harp is suspended, And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended With the voice of the spoiler by me! THE WILD GAZELLE. THE wild Gazelle on Judah's hills Exulting yet may bound, And o'er her scenes of lost delight Inhabitants more fair. The cedars wave on Lebanon, But Judah's statelier maids are gone! More blest each palm that shades those plains, Than Israel's scattered race; For, taking root, it there remains In solitary grace: It cannot quit its place of birth, It will not live in other earth. And where our fathers' ashes be, Our temple hath not left a stone, And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. I. On! snatched away in beauty's bloom, Their leaves, the earliest of the year; II. And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread: Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead! Away; we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. |