Clung even as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide Of nature then swell'd high; and o'er her child Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song." Alas!" she cried, "Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me, And silver cords again to earth have won me, "How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side; By every place of flowers my course delaying, "And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted? Will it not seem as if the sunny day While, through its chambers wandering wearyhearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still, "Under the palm-trees, thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn! Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs, greet me, Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think So pass'd they on, O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, And softly parting clusters of jet curls At last the Fane was reach'd, The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hush'd Her bosom, as before her, thro' the day It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung even as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide Of nature then swell'd high; and o'er her child Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song." Alas!" she cried, "Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me, And silver cords again to earth have won me, "How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side; By every place of flowers my course delaying, "And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted? Will it not seem as if the sunny day While, through its chambers wandering wearyhearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still, "Under the palm-trees, thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn! Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs, greet me, Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? They have one season—all are ours to die! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death! REV. W. LISLE BOWLES. REDEMPTION. THEN shall the day-spring rise, before whose beams The darkness of the world is past; for hark! Seraphs, and angel-choirs with symphonies Acclaiming of ten thousand golden harps Amid the bursting clouds of heav'n reveal'd At once in glory jubilant—they sing, "GOD THE REDEEMER LIVETH! HE WHO TOOK "MAN'S NATURE ON HIM, AND IN HUMAN SHROUD "VEIL'D HIS IMMORTAL GLORY! HE IS RISEN "GOD THE REDEEMER LIVETH! AND BE HOLD "THE FATES OF LIFE AND IMMORTALITY "OPENED TO ALL THAT BREATHE!" O might the strains But win the world to love: meek Charity Should lift her looks and smile; and with faint voice The weary pilgrim of the earth exclaim, As close his eyelids, "DEATH WHERE IS THY STING? O GRAVE! WHERE IS THY VICTORY?" "And ye Whom ocean's melancholy wastes divide, That roll'd upon the silent deep shall bear THE DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON. TYRE BE NO MORE! said the Almighty's voice: But thou too, monarch of the world, whose" arm * Nebuchadnezzar. |