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I hear, from clouds of fluid gold,
The evening music of the west, While the light gondolas unfold
Their silken sails on ocean's breast.
From moonlight decks the golden string
Sounds, while the conscious waters heave, And o'er the shrouds I love to sing
The requiem of the dying eve.
I steal the soft voice of the gale,
That pensive Beauty weeps to hear ; While the foldings of her snowy veil
Are moisten'd with a falling tear.
She lifts Devotion's beaming eye,
Rapt with the music of the main, Till the breathing of a mortal's sigh
Recalls her to the world again.
When the day-star rushes from on high,
My sanguine coral's branching tree Warms with its boughs of roseate dye
The liquid lustre of the sea.
My wild harp charms the list'ning night
With tones that minist'ring angels breathe, When glows the blush of pure delight,
To warm the pallid cheek of death.
From golden sands I love to view
The cold moon of the northern pole, When round her throne of cloudless blue
The circling waves of ether roll.
She wanders through the length’ning night,
And glitters on my crystal dome,
Whose pearly towers in fluid light
Emerge from Zembla's broken foam.
They shiver as the tempests rave
Round shudd'ring Nature's gelid form, While riding on the mountain wave,
I combat Heav'n's unyielding storm.
Ah! when the frozen canyass gleams
'Mid icy mountains far away, The sick’ning sun's unwarming beams
Waste on the surge their languid day.
When the rocking keels the waters brave,
And the snow-cloud's changing meteors burn, I weep to think, that from the wave
The fated barks shall ne'er return.
When the cry of death is on the deep,
And struggling valour toils in vain, I hush, in everlasting sleep,
The luckless wand'rers of the main.
When their life-blood o'er the ocean swims,
And curdles round my central cave, I hide the victims' stiffen'd limbs
In the darkness of the oozy wave.
I bear to my unfathom'd cell
The waving sea-flowers' deathless bloom, To embalm the billows' fitful swell,
That surges o'er the sailor's tomb.
Round many a proud unshaken height,
That props the blue vault of the sky, I revel in the beamy light
That sports in boundless liberty.
While from my streaming locks I Aling
The fragrance of the ocean breeze, I hear the lunar spirits sing
In the summer of Atlantic seas.
They spread their robes of silv'ry hue
O'er the pale moon of the placid even, When, wrapt in clouds of softest blue,
She slumbers at the gates of heaven.
· THE DYING SOLDIER.
happened during the last campaign in Egypt.
When a veteran was seen, by the light of his lamp,
As he counted the slain, “ Oh, Conquest !” he
cried, “ Thou art glorious indeed, but how dearly thou’rt
He listen'd aghast !-all was silent again ;
shed, And found his brave Son, amid hundreds of slain, The corse of a comrade supporting his head !
He gaz'd on his Father, who knelt by his side, And seizing his hand, press'd it close to his heart; “ Thank Heav'n, thou art here, my dear Father !"
he cried ; “ For soon! ah, too soon we for ever must part !
“ Then let not thy bosom with vain sorrow swell;
Shall never part from mine,
Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see; The tear that from thine eyelid streams,
Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
In musing when alone;
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak : Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak ?
By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.