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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 :
An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness!
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,
Even her foes wept to see her fallen state;
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;
Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead.
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.
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.
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
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;
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!
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee ;
That thou couldst mortal be:
That time would e'er be o'er,
And thou shouldst smile no more !
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again ;
That I must look in vain !
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
Sweet Mary! thou art dead !
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene
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!