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Though, still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,

Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But hark! the vesper call to prayer,

As slow the orb of day-light sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From SYRIA's thousand minarets !
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God

From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
Oh 'twas a sight—that Heav'n—that Child-
A scene, which might have well beguilid
Evin haughty Ellis of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man
Reclining there--while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
“ There was a time," he said in mild,
Heart-humbled tones-" thou blessed child !
“ When young and haply pur as thou,
“I look’d and pray'd like thee-but now-
He hung his head-each nobler aim

And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came

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

“ Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,
“ So balmy a virtue, that ev’n in the hour
" That drop descends, contagion dies,
“ And health reanimates earth and skies!
“ Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,

“ The precious tears of repentance fall ? “Though foul thy fiery plagues within,

“ One heavenly drop hath dispell’d them all!"
And now—behold him kneeling there
By the child's side, in humble prayer,
While the same sun-beam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,
And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven
The triumph of a Soul forgiven!

'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they linger'd yet,
There fell a light, more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek,
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek :
To mortal eye this light night seem
A northern flash or meteor beam-
But well th' enraptur'd Peri knew
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!

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,
Passing away like a lover's sigh ;--

My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,
“ Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

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 doneThe Gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won!"




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,
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

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,
But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on

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;
And we heard by the distant and random gun,

That the foe was suddenly firing.

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Pride of the British stage,

A long and last Adieu !
Whose image brought th' heroic age

Reviv'd to fancy's view.

Like fields refresh'd with dewy light,

When the Sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright

Our memory of the past.

And memory conjures feelings up,

That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup,

To “ Kemble, fare thee well."

His was the spell o'er hearts,

Which only acting lends-
The youngest of the sister arts

Where all their beauty blends.

For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime;
And Painting, mute and motionless,

Steals but one glance from Time.

But, by the mighty Actor brought,

Illusion's wedded triumphs come-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,

And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,

But ne'er efface the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,

Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resign'd entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor !
What English heart was not on fire,

With him at Agincourt ?
And yet a majesty possessid

His transports most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast

The Graces gave their zone.

High were the task--too high,

Ye conscious bosoms here,
In words to paint your memory,

Of Kemble and of Lear.

But who forgets that white discrowned head,

Those bursts of Reason's half extinguish'd glare, Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,

In doubt more touching than despair ?

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