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Though, still, whene'er his eye by chance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
As slow the orb of day-light sets,
From SYRIA's thousand minarets !
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
From purity's own cherub mouth,
And how felt he, the wretched Man
And hope and feeling, which had slept
Fresh 'o'er him, and he wept-he wept !
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. “ There's a drop," said the Peri, “ that down from the
“ moon “ Falls through the withering airs of June
“ Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,
“ The precious tears of repentance fall ? “Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
“ One heavenly drop hath dispell’d them all!"
'Twas when the golden orb had set,
Joy, joy for ever! my task is done “ The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won! “ Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am
" To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad “ Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM,
“And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD!
Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die,
My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,
“Farewell ye vanishing flowers, that shone
“ In my fairy wreaths, so bright and brief, “Oh, what are the brightest that e'er have blown, “ To the lote tree, springing by Alla's Throne,
“ Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf!
Joy, joy for ever !--my task is done“ The Gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won!"
THE BURIAL OF SJR JOHN MOORE,
WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA, IN 1808.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him;
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him,
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock toil'd the hour for retiring;
That the foe was suddenly firing.
MR. CAMPBELL'S ODE ON THE RETIREMENT OF
MR. J. P. KEMBLE.
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last Adieu !
Reviv'd to fancy's view.
Like fields refresh'd with dewy light,
When the Sun smiles his last,
Our memory of the past.
And memory conjures feelings up,
That wine or music need not swell,
To “ Kemble, fare thee well."
His was the spell o'er hearts,
Which only acting lends-
Where all their beauty blends.
For ill can Poetry express
Full many a tone of thought sublime;
Steals but one glance from Time.
But, by the mighty Actor brought,
Illusion's wedded triumphs come-
And Sculpture to be dumb.
Time may again revive,
But ne'er efface the charm,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.
To the deep sorrows of the Moor !
With him at Agincourt ?
His transports most impetuous tone,
The Graces gave their zone.