THERE's a rain-drop, that rests on the rose-leaf at even, And bends it in beauty to silence and rest,
And a sunbeam of crimson has gilded that rain-drop With the last ray of glory that comes from the west.
There's a bird in the east, that has stolen from Heaven Its name and its plumage, so beauteous and bright That it seems, as it floats on its silvery wing,
A messenger bird from the "islands of light."
There's a ripple, that comes to the listening beach,
To whisper its story with tremulous motion,
When the chime of the vespers steals soft o'er the wave,
And moonlight is sleeping in peace on the ocean.
But sweeter and brighter than all is the smile,
That plays on the lip of her whom we love,
For the visions it brings, like our dreamings of Heaven,
Have won all their tints from the regions above.
There's many a moment of anguish and sorrow,
And tears that, alas! we may never forget;
But, 'mid the sighs of to-day and the tears of to-morrow,
That smile, oh that smile! — it will go with us yet.
* Written, probably, at seventeen.
SAD, sad was the breathing of holiest fire,
That swept its low moan o'er the prophet's waked
And mournful the echoes that floated along,
the wild requiem of song.
Oh Babylon! Babylon! woe be to thee,
The pride of the earth and the queen of the sea! For the sin of thy people the word has been given, The lament of the prophet, the mandate of Heaven!
And ages on ages returnless have flown,
Since the doom of thy pride and thy splendor was known;
But he who hath gazed on thy ruins can tell,
That the words of the prophet are answered too well!
Green, green o'er thy towers the wild ivy is creeping,
And silent beside thee the waters are sleeping,
Save when touched by the wing of the bat in his flight,
Gone forth on his errand of silence by night!
Cold, cold o'er thy ruins the night wind's low moan! 'Tis the sigh o'er the days of thy pride that have gone,
* Spoken at Commencement, August 5th, 1830. See the fifth chapter of Daniel, for the basis of this poem.
Borne forth from their charnel, all voiceless and chill!
Peace, peace, to the dust of the brave where they sleep!
Their slumbers be peaceful, their quiet be deep! Let spring bring her chaplets and flowerets most fair, And strew them, and weave them in loveliness there!
On Babel's towers the lamps are bright;
There, in their brilliancy they shine,
Like gems upon an ebon shrine,
And meteor-like are glaring high,
To light the darkness of the sky,
Heaven's darkest, deepest, blackest gloom,
Still as Creation's voiceless tomb.
Not even a lisping breath of air
Wakes from its infant slumbers there!
A noiseless, starless, breathless sky,
Hushed into deep expectancy!
But still on earth there is a cry
Of wakeful mirth and revelry;
For Babel keeps her festal night,
And all her lamps of holy light
Are flashing, in one ceaseless gleam,
Across Euphrates' waveless stream.
Flash on ye holy fires, flash on! Your brilliant life is nearly gone; There is a meaning in the sky, Dark prelude of your destiny!
Home of the lightning and the storm!
Strange semblance of JEHOVAH'S form!
There is a meaning in the shape
Your shadowy forms will sometimes take;
As 't were the marks which feelings trace,
In hurried outline on the face
Of the still future ; - all that 's given,
To show frail man the will of Heaven.
The moon-lit cloud, so bright, so fair,
Gives hopes of joy and gladness near;
The scattered mist, that hurries by
In fitful passage o'er the sky,
Foretells the tears that pass away,
Remembered but with yesterday;
But the dark sky of angry frown,
That hangs in blackening stillness down,
Tells of the deepest, saddest woe,
That mortal man may taste or know.
And Babel's King was on his throne,
And Babel's princes round him shone,
And Babel's youth and beauty — all
Are gathered in that glittering hall:
Young hope and love are beaming now
From every fair and noble brow,
Where pomp and pageant move along
To the rich melody of song;
The clanging horn, the melting flute,
And sweetly pensive, plaintive lute,
Wake the hushed echoes of that pile,
And swell along each vaulted aisle,
Then, touching on some softer strain,
Sink to their holy rest again.
Circassia's lovely ones are there,
And Arab maid of raven hair,
That floats, in playful tresses, down
A neck of loveliest, richest brown,
With laughing eyes, that brightly flash,
Beneath the long and dark eye-lash,
Like India's pearls in ocean cave,
That sparkle through the sleeping wave; -
All, that is beautiful and fair,
Is gathered in full splendor there.
"Bring forth," that monarch said, “bring forth
Those golden cups of sacred worth,
Which my own father's victor hand
Bore from Judea's captive land.
Yes! even from that hallowed place,
The holiest shrine of holiness,
Where all their boasted glories dwelt,
And Judah's bigot prophet knelt,
He, with his arm these trophies won,
To swell the pomp of Babylon.
But Belus's shrine shall share the spoil,
He gathered there 'mid blood and toil,
And Chaldee's king, his monarch son, -
Boast the proud name his father won.
He spoke and bright, before his throne, Those cups of sacred usage shone;
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