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At her approach, the Grave appears
Baptized with her renewing fire,
May we the crown of glory gain; Rise when the Host of Heaven expire, And reign with God, for ever reign!
"THE JOY OF GRIEF."
SWEET the hour of tribulation, When the heart can freely sigh; And the tear of resignation
Twinkles in the mournful eye.
Have you felt a kind emotion
Tremble through your troubled breast; Soft as evening o'er the ocean,
When she charms the waves to rest?
Have you lost a friend, or brother?
Heard a father's parting breath? Gazed upon a lifeless mother,
Till she seem'd to wake from death?
Have you felt a spouse expiring
In your arms, before your view? Watch'd the lovely soul retiring
From her eyes that broke on you?
Did not grief then grow romantic, Raving on remember'd bliss? Did you not, with fervor frantic,
Kiss the lips that felt no kiss?
Yes! but, when you had resign'd her, Life and you were reconciled; 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 woe are healing, While the heart is all resign'd; "T is a solemn feast of feeling,
"T is 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
You have seen a friend, a brother,
Felt her tears upon your cheek.
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 ecstacy 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 Memon, 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 eclebrated Lyre, on a modern occasion, will be censured as an anachronism by those only who think that its chords have been touched 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 Venus, newly born,
Blushing at her maiden charms, Fresh from ocean rose the Morn, When the trumpet blew to arms.
His fervent soul, a soul of flame,
On Helicon's inspiring brink,
His wanton fingers o'er her lyre
And dives among the deepest strings;
Ah! then no more his smiling hours Were spent in Childhood's Eden-bowers; The fall from Infant-innocence, The fall to knowledge drives us thence: O Knowledge! worthless as the price, Bought with the loss of Paradise. As happy ignorance declined, And reason rose upon his mind, Romantic hopes and fond desires (Sparks of the soul's immortal fires) Kindled within his breast the rage To breathe through every future age, To clasp the flitting shade of fame, To build an everlasting name, O'erleap the narrow vulgar span, And live beyond the life of man.
Then Nature's charms his heart possess'd, And Nature's glory fill'd his breast: The sweet Spring-morning's infant rays, Meridian Summer's youthful blaze, Maturer Autumn's evening mild, And hoary Winter's midnight wild, Awoke his eye, inspired his tongue; For every scene he loved, he sung. Rude were his songs, and simple truth, Till Boyhood blossom'd into Youth; Then nobler themes his fancy fired, To bolder flights his soul aspired; And as the new moon's opening eye Broadens and brightens through the sky, From the dim streak of western light To the full orb that rules the night;
Thus, gathering lustre in its race,
And hail'd, where'er its footsteps trod,
Soft as the slumbering Infant's sigh, So sweetly, exquisitely wild,
It spake the Muse of Sorrow's child.
O Pillow! then, when light withdrew, To thee the fond enthusiast flew; On thee, in pensive mood reclined, He pour'd his contemplative mind, Till o'er his eyes with mild control Sleep like a soft enchantment stole, Charm'd into life his airy schemes, And realized his waking dreams.
Soon from those waking dreams he woke, The fairy spell of fancy broke; In vain he breathed a soul of fire Through every chord that strung his lyre. No friendly echo cheer'd his tongue; Amidst the wilderness he sung; Louder and bolder bards were crown'd, Whose dissonance his music drown'd; The public ear, the public voice, Despised his song, denied his choice, Denied a name,-a life in death, Denied a bubble and a breath.
Stript of his fondest, dearest claim, And disinherited of fame, To thee, O Pillow! thee alone, He made his silent anguish known; His haughty spirit scorn'd the blow That laid his high ambition low; But, ah! his looks assumed in vain A cold ineffable disdain,
While deep he cherish'd in his breast The scorpion that consumed his rest.
Yet other secret griefs had he, O Pillow! only told to thee: Say, did not hopeless love intrude On his poor bosom's solitude? Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined, In dreams the cruel Fair was kind, That more intensely he might know The bitterness of waking woe.
Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd, To thee in midnight groans reveal'd, They stung remembrance to despair; "A wounded Spirit who can bear?"
Meanwhile Disease, with slow decay, Moulder'd his feeble frame away; And as his evening sun declined, The shadows deepen'd o'er his mind. What doubts and terrors then possess'd The dark dominion of his breast! How did delirous fancy dwell On Madness, Suicide, and Hell! There was on earth no Power to save: -But, as he shudder'd o'er the grave, He saw from realms of light descend The friend of him who has no friend, Religion!-Her almighty breath Rebuked the winds and waves of death; She bade the storm of frenzy cease, And smiled a calm, and whisper'd peace: Amidst that calm of sweet repose, To Heaven his gentle Spirit rose.