How the wide landscape laughs upon the sky!' How rich the light that gives it to the eye! Where lies our path ?-though many a vista call, What bills, what vales, what streams become the lyre? There Ossa rises; there Olympus towers; Between them, Tempè breathes in beds of flowers, No, no-a lonelier, lovelier path be mine: Greece, and her charms, I leave, for Palestine. There, purer streams through happier valleys flow, And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow. I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balın; I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm; I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews; I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse : In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose, And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose. Here arching vines their leafy banner spread, Shake their green shields, and purple odours shed; At once repelling Syria's burning ray, And breathing freshness on the sultry day. Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing, Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring; And here as musing on my theme divine, I gather flowers to bloom along my line, And hang my garland in festoons around, Enwreath'd with clusters, and with tendrils bound; And fondly, warmly, humbly hope, the Power, That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower, Drew living water from this rocky shrine, That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time, The undying breath, the very soul of song. Down that long vale of years are sweetly roll'd The mingled voices of the bards of old; Melodious voices! bards of brightest fire! Where each is warm, how melting is the quire! Yet, though so blended is the concert blest, Some master tones are heard above the rest. O'er the cleft sea the storm in fury rides : Israel is safe, and Egypt tempts the tides: Her host, descending, meets a wat❜ry grave, And o'er her monarch rolls the refluent wave. The storm is hush'd: the billows foam no more, But sink in smiles :-there's Musick on the shore. On the wide waste of waters, dies that air Unheard; for all is death and coldness there. But see! the robe that brooding Silence throws O'er Shur reclining in profound repose, Is rent, and scattered, by the burst of praise, But if, when joy and gratitude inspire, Such high-ton'd triumph walks along the lyre, What are its breathings, when pale Sorrow flings Her tearful touches o'er its trembling strings? At Nebo's base, that mighty bard resigns His life and empire in prophetick lines.2— Heaven, all attention, round the poet bends, And conscious earth, as when the dew descends, Or showers as gentle, feels her young buds swell, Her herbs shoot greener, at that fond farewell. Rich is the song, though mournfully it flows: And as that harp, which God alone bestows, Is swept in concert with that sinking breath, Its cold chords shrink, as from the touch of death. It was the touch of death!-Sweet be thy slumbers, Shall live, till Nature heaves her dying groan. From Pisgah's top his eye the prophet threw, Shone, like the robe of Winter, on the rocks. Where is the prophet ?—God can tell thee where. So, on the brow of some romantick height, Who is that Chief, already taught to urge And, like the storm o'er Sodom, redly lowers? |