The south sun checkers all thy birchen glade
With glimmering lights and deep-retiring shade;
Fresh coverts of the dale, so dear to tread,
When morn's wild blackbird carols overhead;
Or, when the sunflower shuts her bosom fair,
And scented berries breathe delicious air.
Dear is thy pastoral haunt to him that woos
Romantic Nature - Silence - and the Muse!
But dearer still, when that returning time
Of fruits and flowers the year's Elysian prime Invites, one simple festival to crown,
Young social wanderers from the sultry town!
Ah, meno sumptuous revelry to share, The cheerful bosom asks, or envies there; Nor sighs for gorgeous splendors, such as wait On feasts of wealth, and riots of the great. Far sweeter scenes, the live-long summer day, On these wild walks when loved companions stray, But lost in joys of more enchanting flow Than tasteless art or luxury bestow. Here, in auspicious moments, to impart The first fond breathings of a proffered heart, Shall favored Love repair, and smiling Youth To gentle Beauty vow the vows of truth.
Fair morn ascends, and sunny June has shed Ambrosial odors o'er the garden bed; And wild bees seek the cherry's sweet perfume, Or cluster round the full-blown apple-bloom.
WHEN Jordan hushed his waters still,
And silence slept on Zion hill,-
When Salem's shepherds, through the night,
Watched o'er their flocks by starry light,-
Hark! from the midnight hills around,
A voice, of more than mortal sound,
In distant hallelujahs stole,
Wild murmuring, on the raptured soul.
Then swift, to every startled eye,
New streams of glory gild the sky;
Heaven bursts her azure gates, to pour
Her spirits to the midnight hour.
On wheels of light, and wings of flame,
The glorious hosts to Zion came.
High Heaven with sounds of triumph rung,
And thus they smote their harps and sung:
O Zion! lift thy raptured eye,
The long-expected hour is nigh-
The joys of Nature rise again.
The Prince of Salem comes to reign!
See, Mercy, from her golden urn,
Pours a glad stream to them that mourn ;
Behold, she binds, with tender care,
The bleeding bosom of despair.-
-HE cheers the trembling heart Night and her spectres pale depart : Again the day-star gilds the gloom Again the bowers of Eden bloom!
O, Zion! lift thy raptured eye,
The long-expected hour is nigh-
The joys of Nature rise again
The Prince of Salem comes to reign!
CHORUS FROM THE CHOEPHORE.
SENT from the Mourners' solitary dome,
I lead the solemn, long parade of woe;
To lull the sleepless spirit of the tomb,
And hail the mighty Dead, that rest below.
Hail, sacred Dead! a maiden weeps for you;
For you I wake the madness of despair!
The deep-struck wounds of woe my cheeks bedew;
I feed bosom with eternal care.
Lo! where the robes, that once my bosom bound,
Rent by despair, fly waving in the wind;
The ceaseless strokes of anguish rudely sound,
As sorrow heaves tumultuous in my mind.
Heard ye wild Horror's hair-erecting scream
Reecho, dismal, from his distant cell?
Heard ye the Spirit of the mighty dream
Shriek, to the solemn hour, a long-resounding yell?
The females heard him, in the haunted hall,
As shrill his accents smote the slumbering ear
Prophetic accents when the proud must fall
And wrapt in sounds of agonizing fear.
Lo! Wisdom's lips your nightly dreams divine,
And read the visions of impending woe;
Blood calls for vengeance on a lawless Line;
The murdered spirit shrieks in wrath below.
Vain are the gifts the silent mourners send ;
Vain Music's fall, to soothe the sullen Dead;
The dark collected clouds of Death impend; -
Shall Ruin spare thy long-devoted head?
O, sacred dust! O, Spirit, lingering nigh,
I bear the gifts of yonder guilty throne!
My trembling lips the unhallowed strain deny;
Shall mortal man for mortal blood atone?
Mansions of Grief! a long-impending doom
O'erhangs the dark dominions where ye reign;
A sunless horror, of unfathomed gloom,
Shall shroud your glory - for a Master slain.
The sceptred pomp, ungovernably grand,
Untamed in battle, in the fields of yore;
That martial glory; blazoned o'er the land,
Is fallen nor bids the prostrate world adore!
Yet, sure, to bask in Glory's golden day,
Or on the lap of Pleasure to repose,
Unvexed to roam on Life's bewildered way,
Is more than Earth-is more than Heaven bestows.
For Justice, oft, with ready bent arraigns,
And Guilt hath oft deferred his deadly doom -
Lurked in the twilight's slow suspicious pains,
Or wrapped his deeds in Night's eternal gloom.
THE tempest blackens on the dusky moor,
And billows lash the long-resounding shore;
In pensive mood I roam the desert ground,
And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found.
O, whither fled the pleasurable hours
That chased each care, and fired the Muse's powers;
The classic haunts of youth, forever gay,
Where mirth and friendship cheered the close of day;
The well-known valleys, where I wont to roam;
The native sports, the nameless joys of home?
Far different scenes allure my wondering eye:-
The white wave foaming to the distant sky;
The cloudy heavens, unblest by summer's smile;
The sounding storm, that sweeps the rugged isle;
The chill, bleak summit of eternal snow;
The wide, wild glen—the pathless plains below;
The dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled;
The cuckoo, sighing to the pensive wild!
Far different these from all that charmed before The grassy banks of Clutha's winding shore; Her sloping vales, with waving forests lined, Her smooth, blue lakes, unruffled by the wind. Hail, happy Clutha! glad shall I survey Thy gilded turrets from the distant way! Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller's toil, And joy shall hail me to my native soil.
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