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With straining eye, with throbbing breast,
High from the castle wall,
She's watch'd the east, she's watch'd the west,
From morn till even-fall,
She heeded not the breeze, that blew
Chill on her bosom bare;
She heeded not the hoary dew,
That gemm'd her raven hair.
But vainly looks she to the hill,
And vainly to the lea;
She starts 'tis but the distant rill,
'Tis but the rustling tree.
The twilight fades: the moon shines clear,
And still her watch she keeps ;
But hark! what moan comes o'er her ear
Of one that wails and weeps?
Ah! no; full well she knows the sound,
The boding sounds of death;
The moanings wild of startled hound,
That bays the passing wraith.
And dimly down the distant heath,
A warrior's corse between,
With wail and woe, a train of death
Descending now is seen.
Where yonder yews their shadows lave
In Teith's encircling tide,
They sleep within one grass-green grave,
The chieftain and his bride.
Written on a blank leaf in the " Hymns for Infant Minds." By the Author of Original Poems, Rhymes for the Nursery, &c.
ADDRESSED TO ANNE AND JANE.*
WHEN the shades of night retire
From the morn's advancing beam,
Ere the hills are tipt with fire,
And the radiance lights the stream,
Lo! the lark begins her song,
Early on the wing and long:
Summon'd by the signal notes,
Soon her sisters quit the lawn,
With their wildly-warbling throats
Soaring in the dappled dawn:
Brighter, warmer spread the rays,
Louder, sweeter swell their lays.
Nestling in their grassy beds,
Hearkening to the joyful sound,
Heavenward point their little heads,
Lowly twittering from the ground,
Till their wings are fledged to fly
To the chorus in the sky.
Thus, fair minstrels! while ye sing,
Teaching infant minds to raise
To the universal King
Humble hymns of prayer and praise,
O may all who hear your voice,
Look, and listen, and rejoice.
Faltering like the skylark's young,
While your numbers they record,
may every heart and tongue
Learn to magnify the Lord;
And your strains divinely sweet
Unborn millions thus repeat.
*The signatures of these amiable writers in their former publications.
Minstrels! what reward is due
For this labour of your love?—
Through eternity may you,
In the Paradise above,
Round the dear Redeemer's feet,
All your infant readers meet !
THE TRUMPET AND CHURCH-BELL,
BY MATTHEW WELD HARTSTONGE, ESQ.
THROUGH the throng'd streets, in proud array,
The gallant war-troop took their way;
On trampling steeds, with nodding plume,
And blades unsheath'd, the warriors come;
Loud in the van the TRUMPET's breath
Wakes love of glory, scorn of death;
Peals its bold clamour high and clear,
And thrills each heart with joy and fear.
What sound so sullen, yet so loud,
Confounds at once the music proud?—
In the deep DEATH-BELL's dismal sound
War's stirring notes are sunk and drown'd:
Yet still betwixt each heavy swing
The shrilly trump is heard to ring,
Arraigning thus, to fancy's ear,
The sad intruder pealing near.
Silence thy din, thou slow-tongued slave,
Thou herald to the fame-less grave,
That tell'st when sons of lazy peace
From their unhonour'd labours cease.
Boots it to know, or when or how
The base-soul'd peasant leaves his plough;
Boots it to know or how or when
Surfeits the pamper'd citizen;
Or how, degenerate from his sires,
In slothful ease the peer expires?
With such mean tidings dar'st thou mar
The voice of Victory and War;
The voice of Honour and of Fame,
Who bears my emblem and my name?
Think not to awe my solemn knell,
Vain boaster, for I know thee well;
Not in the city's social bound
Should thy discordant summons sound;
There fittest heard where ravens come,
And croak thy burden with the drum;
Then fittest heard when ranks are broke,
And squadrons stagger in the shock;
There let thy braying clangour speak,
Mid oath, and groan, and dying shriek ;
There emulate the cannon's knell,
Mock the gorged eagle's joyous yell,
And silence with thy clamorous breath
Thy victims in the throes of death:
But here thy vain bravadoe cease,
Mine is the house of God and Peace.
Yes, sluggard, yes! I boast 'tis mine
To cheer to arms the battled line;
With pride I own the glorious art,
'Gainst fate and fear to brace the heart;
The shrilling Rouse, the bold Advance,
Bids pulses throb and eyeballs glance;
The warrior hears my victor clang,
And recks not of his dying pang:
Then, dull monotony, forbear
With mine thy music to compare.
Thou call'st the clerk to hum his stave,
The sexton to the unfinish'd grave:
To deeds of fame I sound the way,-
I sound, and mightiest chiefs obey.
Dust unto dust by thee is given,
My strains send heroes' souls to heaven.
Shrill braggard, well thy brazen tongue
Thine own vain eulogy has sung,
As if thy steeds, at Cromwell's call,
Stabled again in holy hall,
And bells, down toppling from their spires,
Were destin'd to transmuting fires;
Yet, though I loath to boast my merit,
List to the duties I inherit :
Thy sympathies are blood and strife,
But mine each change of social life;
A guardian of the public weal,
For fires I sound my warning peal;
I call the wealthy to my door
To drop their bounty on the poor;
Proclaim, with deep and awful pause,
The vengeance due for broken laws;
Or, sadly, slowly, summon forth
Affection's tears for buried worth.
Nor mine the sounds of woe alone,
Each public triumph claims my tone;
Hard-task'd mechanics know my voice,
Signal of freedom, and rejoice;
And when the holy knot is tied,
I greet the bridegroom and the bride :
Mine are law, reason, peace, and faith;
Thine, desperate life and timeless death.
Such vulgar cares be all thine own,
Mine is the station next the throne;
When monarchs sorrow or rejoice,
In weal or woe they use my voice;
I speak their mourning or their mirth,
Proclaim their funeral or their birth;
'Tis my loud clarion tells afar
Their high resolves for peace or war:
Then, dotard monk, thy scurril taunt
Be drown'd amid this bold levant.
[Trumpet flourishes. So speaks the organ of a crown, Herald of glory and renown
Herald of earthly pomp and pride,
Let this our precedence decide;
The servant of no human lord,
I speak a mightier monarch's word,
And sound within my cloister'd portal
Of mortal death, of life immortal;
Of woes that mock at every cure,
Of weal that ever shall endure;
Of wars against the powers of hell,
Of God's own peace ineffable;
Of man renew'd by heavenly birth,
Glad tidings, joy, good will on earth.-
Then sunk the Trumpet's boastful clang,
And undisturb'd the Death-Bell rang.