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AIRS OF PALESTINE;
a poem :
BY JOHN PIERPONT, Esq.
I love to breathe, where Gilead sheds her balm ;
DISTRICT OF MARYLAND, ss. BE it remembered, That on this thirteenth day of November, in the forty-first year of the Independence of the United States of America, John Pierpont, Esquire, of the said District, hath deposited in this Office, the Title of a Book, the right whereof be claims as author, in the words following, to wit :“Airs of Palestine; a Poem : by John Pierpont, Esquire.
" I love to breathe, where Gilead sheds her balm ;
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse:
“ And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose.” In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled “ An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprie tors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned," and also to the act, entitled “ An act, supplementary to an act, entitled an act, for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned," and extending the benefits thereof, to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints.
AIRS OF PALESTINE.
SOMMER's dun cloud, that, slowly rising, holds
One tie, that winds, with soft and sweet control,
That tie is Musick. How supreme her sway! How lovely is the Power that all obey ! Dumb matter trembles at her thrilling shock; Her voice is echo'd by the desert rock; For her, the asp withholds the sting of death, And bares his fangs, but to inhale her breath; The lordly lion leaves his lonely lair, And, crouching, listens when she treads the air; And man, by wilder impulse driven to ill, Is tamed, and led by this Enchantress still. Who ne'er has felt her hand assuasive steal Along his heart-That heart will never feel. 'Tis hers to chain the passions, sooth the soul, To snatch the dagger, and to dash the bowl From Murder's hand; to smooth the couch of Care, Extract the thorns, and scatter roses there ; Of Pain's hot brow, to still the bounding throb, Despair's long sigh, and Grief's convulsive sob.