ANNA left-she left behind her,
One, one dear, one only child.
But before the green moss peeping,
His poor
mother's grave array'd,
In that grave the infant sleeping
On the mother's lap was laid.
Horror then, your heart congealing,
Chill'd you with intense despair:
Can you call to mind the feeling?
No! there was no feeling there.
From that gloomy trance of sorrow,
When you woke to pangs unknown,
How unwelcome was the morrow,
For it rose on YOU ALONE!
Sunk in self-consuming anguish,
Can the poor heart always ache?
No, the tortured nerve will languish,
Or the strings of life must break.
O'er the yielding brow of Sadness
One faint smile of comfort stole;
One soft pang of tender gladness
Exquisitely thrill'd your soul.
While the wounds of wo are healing,
While the heart is all resign'd;
"Tis the solemn feast of feeling,
"Tis the sabbath of the mind.
Pensive memory then retraces
Scenes of bliss for ever fled,
Lives in former times and places,
Holds communion with the dead.
And when night's prophetic slumbers
Rend the veil to mortal eyes,
From their tombs the sainted numbers Of our lost companions rise.
You have seen a friend, a brother,
Heard a dear dead father speak;
Proved the fondness of a mother,
Felt her tears upon your cheek.
Dreams of love your grief beguiling,
You have clasp'd a consort's charms,
And received your infant smiling
From his mother's sacred arms.
Trembling, pale, and agonizing,
While you mourn'd the vision gone,
Bright the morning-star arising,
Open'd heaven, from whence it shone.
Thither all your wishes bending,
Rose in ecstasy sublime,
Thither all your hopes ascending
Triumph'd over death and time.
Thus afflicted, bruised, and broken,
Have
you known such sweet relief?
Yes, my friend; and by this token,
You have felt "THE JOY OF grief."
THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA.
At Thebes, in Ancient Egypt, was erected a statue of Memnon, with a harp in his hand, which is said to have hailed with delightful music the rising sun, and in melancholy tones to have mourned his departure. The introduction of this celebrated Lyre, on a modern occasion, will be censured as an anachronism by those only who think that its chords have been touch'd unskilfully.
HARP of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres;
While the HERO's dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears.
As the SUN's descending beams,
Glancing o'er thy feeling wire,
Kindle every chord that gleams,
Like a ray of heavenly fire:
Let thy numbers, soft and slow,
O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying while they flow
To the memory of the dead.
Bright as Beauty, newly born,
Blushing at her maiden charms;
Fresh from Ocean rose the Morn,
When the trumpet blew to arms.
Terrible soon grew the light
On the Egyptian battle-plain,
As the darkness of that night,
When the eldest born was slain.
Lash'd to madness by the wind,
As the Red Sea surges roar,
Leave a gloomy gulf behind,
And devour the shrinking shore;
Thus, with overwhelming pride,
GALLIA's brightest, boldest boast,
In a deep and dreadful tide,
Roll'd upon the BRITISH host.
Dauntless these their station held,
Though with unextinguish'd ire
GALLIA's legions, thrice repell'd,
Thrice return'd through blood and fire.
Thus, above the storms of time,
Towering to the sacred spheres,
Stand the Pyramids sublime,-
Rocks amid the flood of years.
Now the veteran CHIEF drew nigh,
Conquest towering on his crest,
Valour beaming from his eye,
Pity bleeding in his breast.
BRITAIN saw him thus advance
In her Guardian-Angel's form; But he lower'd on hostile FRANCE, Like the Demon of the Storm.
On the whirlwind of the war
High he rode in vengeance dire; To his friends a leading star,
To his foes consuming fire.
Then the mighty pour'd their breath,
Slaughter feasted on the brave!
'Twas the Carnival of Death;
'Twas the Vintage of the Grave.
Charged with ABERCROMBIE's doom,
Lightning wing'd a cruel ball:
'Twas the Herald of the Tomb,
And the HERO felt the call-
Felt-and raised his arm on high;
Victory well the signal knew,
Darted from his awful eye,
And the force of FRANCE o'erthrew.
But the horrors of that fight,
Were the weeping MUSE to tell,
Oh 'twould cleave the womb of night,
And awake the dead that fell!
Gash'd with honourable scars,
Low in Glory's lap they lie;
Though they fell, they fell like stars,
Streaming splendour through the sky.
Yet shall Memory mourn that day,
When, with expectation pale,
Of her soldier far away
The poor widow hears the tale.
In imagination wild,
She shall wander o'er this plain,
Rave, and bid her orphan-child
Seek his sire among the slain.
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,
Soothe 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
O'er his relics cold and pale,
Night her silent vigil keeps,
In a mournful moonlight vale.
Harp of MEMNON! from afar,
Ere the lark salute the sky,
Watch the rising of the star
That proclaims the morning nigh.
Soon the Sun's ascending rays,
In a flood of hallow'd fire,
O'er thy kindling chords shall blaze,
And thy magic soul inspire.
Then thy tones triumphant pour,
Let them pierce the HERO's grave;
Life's tumultuous battle o'er,
Oh 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.
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