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God of the Thunder! from whose cloudy seat

The fiery winds of Desolation flow : Father of vengeance ! that with purple feet,

Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below: The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, Nor spring's the beast of havoc on his prey, Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way,

Till thou the guilty land hast sealed for woe.

God of the Rainbow! at whose gracious sign

The billows of the proud their rage suppress :
Father of Mercies ! at one word of thine

An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness!
And fountains sparkle in the arid sands,
And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands,
And marble cities crown the laughing lands,

And pillared temples rise thy name to bless.

O’er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord,

The chariots rattled o'er her sunken. gate,
Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword,

Even her foes wept to see her fallen state;
And heaps her ivory palaces became.
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame,
Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame,

For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate.

O’er Judah’s land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam,

And the sad City lift her crownless head;
And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam,

Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead.
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers,
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers,

And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand,

And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves; With fettered steps we left our pleasant land,

Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves.
The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep,
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep,
'Neath the mute' midnight we steal forth to weep,

Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves.

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy,

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare, And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed

th' irradiate dome.

Wolfe.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was beard, not a funeral note,

As bis corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the

grave

where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound 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 stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed 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 little 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 struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory!

STANZAS.

If I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee ;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind bad past,

That time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more !

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again ;
And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain !
But when I speak, thou dost not say,

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead !

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been ! While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave-

And I am now alone!

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