O'er each French trashy dish as I bend, And the round tears, O England! descend Yes, my soul sentimentally craves British beer. Hail, Britannia, hail! Yet I own, in this hour of my drought, There are melons too, luscious and great, Horrid pun! you'll exclaim; but be calm, TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM. AN original something, fair maid, you would win me For I fear I have nothing original in me FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO, FROM THE BOOK OF JOB. Having met my illustrious friend, the composer Neukomm, at Algiers, several years ago, I commenced this intended Oratorio at his desire; but he left the place before I proceeded further in the poem, and it has been thus left unfinished. CRUSHED by misfortune's yoke, Job lamentably spoke "My boundless curse be on The day that I was born; Quenched be the star that shone Upon my natal morn! In the grave I long To shroud my breast; Where the wicked cease to wrong, And the weary are at rest.” Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair : "What Heaven ordains 't is meet that man should bear. Lately, at midnight drear, A vision shook my bones with fear; A spirit passed before my face, And yet its form I could not trace; It stopped-it stood it chilled my blood, The hair upon my flesh uprose With freezing dread! Deep silence reigned, and, at its close, I heard a voice that said. 'Shall mortal man be more pure and just How soon the wreath of joy grows wan The Earth demands his death, And the Heavens reveal his shame."" JOB. Is this your consolation? Is it thus that ye condole With the depth of my desolation, He fadeth like a flower. My days are passed-my hope and trust Is but to moulder in the dust. CHORUS. Bow, mortal, bow, before thy God, Think on God's eternal sway! Hark! from the whirlwind forth Thy Maker speaks"Thou child of earth, Where wert thou when I laid Creation's corner-stone? When the sons of God rejoicing made, And the morning stars together sang and shone? Hadst thou power to bid above Heaven's constellations glow; Or shape the forms that live and move On Nature's face below? Hast thou given the horse his strength and pride? He paws the valley, with nostril wide He smells far off the battle; He neighs at the trumpet's sound — TO MY NIECE, MARY CAMPBELL. OUR friendship's not a stream to dry, Thy playfulness and pleasant ways Proud honesty protects our lot, No dun infests our bowers; To think, too, thy remembrance fond May love me after death, Gives fancied happiness beyond My lease of living breath. Meanwhile thine intellects presage And make me feel the advance of age Good-night! propitious dreams betide And we will make to-morrow glide 34 |