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Thou shalt ascend the Zion of the skies,
Far, far above the rolling spheres, where reigus
Thy still incarnate God; and dwell with him,
And all the glorious company of heav'n,'
In bliss ineffable, and light divine.

THE GRAVE.

[MONTGOMERY.]
THERE is a calm for those who weep;
A rest for weary pilgrims found :
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground.
The storm that wrecks the winter sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh

That shuts the rose.
I long to lay this painful head,
And aching heart, beneath the soil ;
To slumber in that dreamless bed

From all my toil.
The grave that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide ;
O listen !- I will speak no more :

Be silent pride!
• Art thou a mourner? hast thou known
The joy of innocent delights,
Endearing days for ever flown,

And tranquil nights?
• O live! and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past;
Rely on Heav'n's unchanging will

For peace at last.

Or tell me, Pleasure, what you feel;
Speak honestly, nor aught conceal :

The matter is of weight.
Pleasure, sweet power, to Nature dear!
I never wish to be austere;

I seek the happiest state.

Pleasure replies, with modest smile,
Let not a name the heart beguile :

My name the sons of sense
Have oft assum'd; but, trust me, they
From happiness are far astray!

'Tis all a mere pretence.

To me they boast alliance near;
As men of pleasure, men of cheer,

If you will them believe:
Meanwhile, they are of Circe's crew,
Wretched, defiled; with painted bue,

Weak mortals to deceive.

Mine is a purer, nobler rise,
Virtue, my parent, from the skies
Came down to bless the earth,

the child she bore to Love; A beauteous happy pair above

And here of highest worth !

With me,

Virtue, I grant, is often tried
By sickness, sorrow, envy, pride;

Nor is asham'd to mourn.
But trial strengthens : conscience cheers,
Of death and woe, prevents the fears :

Assaults to vict'ry turn.

Of active life the hard turmoils,
The patriot's cares, the hero's toils,

In brighter triumphs end.
Of friendship, sympathy, the pains
A generous soul accounts her gains,

While all the good commend.

But who can paint the heart-felt glow
Of holy love, of thought the flow

Reciprocal, sincere?
Faith's firm repose, hope's vision bright,
Of God's approving face the light,

Of prayer the rapt'rous tear?

Nor deem such bliss an empty form; 'Tis solid, 'twill defy the storm

And keep the breast serene; When all the merriment of vice, A low-born vapour, sudden flies,

And leaves a void within!

A naked void where nought can come,
But self-reproach and secret gloom,

Earnest of future woe!
Let braggart sinners loudly boast:
To joy, to peace, to comfort lost,

True hearts they do not know.

They dare not face rich Folly's frown;
To saucy greatness they bow down,

Held fast in Passion's chain.
They talk of liberty; 'tis prate,
The slayes of appetite and fate,

They start at every pain.

Unto my soul-of deeds of frightful sin
That had been done those desolate rooms within :
I heard those tales, and nightly shook with dread,
In my small chamber as I stole to bed;
And then bad dreams, the strangest that e'er came
To man or child-and evermore the same.
I always dreamed, that as I lay and slept,
A gentle lady o'er me hung, and wept,
And clasped her hands, and moaned, and inly prayed,
Like one in agony, and sore afraid -
As if she dreaded some severe command,

Whose fearful ban had left her broken-hearted Then kissed my lips, and with her small white hand

Softly the ringlets from my forehead parted;
But oh, her touch! 'twas like the marble stone,
And seemed to chill me to the very bone,
As if death shot through every gushing vein
A momentary pang of icy pain :
Such was my dream-and niore-for always she
Bore at her waist a costly rosary,
From which each night a scented bead she took,

And laid within my hand—and ever it seemed
So real, that each morning, when I woke,

I looked to find the bead of which I dreamed. Thus, night by night, her visits were maintained, Till not a bead upon the string remained Nought save the crucifix; and then I told What nightly in my dreams I did behold Told to my father and his guests by chance. Oh! had you seen each ghastly countenance, As they gazed on me in their speechless awe, You might have thought some spectral form they saw! At length, thus spoke an ancient lady there :Now Heaven be praised, who of the child had care ! For he no more had woke to love and light, Had he received the crucifix this nigbt.

Place us where Sharon's roses blow;
Place us where Siloe's waters flow;
Place us on Lebanon, that waves
Its cedars o'er our fathers' graves :
Place us upon that holy mount,
Where stands the temple, gleams the fount;
And love and joy shall loose our tongues,
To warble Sion's pleasant songs.

If I should e'er, earth's fairest gem,
Forget thee, O Jerusalem !
May my right hand forget its skill,
To wake the slumbering lyre at will!
If from my heart, e'en when most gay,
Thy memory e'er should fade away,
May my tongue rest within

my

head Mute as the voices of the dead !

Remember, 0 remember, Lord,
In that day Edom's race abhorred;
When once again o'er Salem's towers,
The sun of joy its radiance pours,
Forget not them whose hateful cry
Rose loud and fiend-like to the sky,
• Be that unholy city crushed,
Raze, raze it even with the dust!'

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Daughter of Babylon, the hour
Is coming that shall bow thy power,
The Persian sword shall make thee groan,
The Mede shall fill Belshazzar's throne;
Blest shall he be who bids thee sip
The

cup thou heldst to Salem's lip,
And mocks thee, weeping o'er the stones
Red with thy children's bleeding bones.

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