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Dreams of love your grief beguiling,

You have clasp'd a consort's charms, And received your infant smiling

From his mother's sacred arms.

Trembling, pale, and agonizing,

While you mourn'd the vision gone, Bright the morning star arising

Open'd heaven, from whence it shone.

Thither all your wishes bending,

Rose in ecstacy sublime, Thither all your hopes ascending

Triumph'd over death and time.

Thus afflicted, bruised, and broken,

Have you

known such sweet relief? Yes, my friend ! and by this token,

You have felt 66 THE JOY OF GRIEF."


At Thebes, in Ancient Egypt, was erected a statue of Memnon, with a harp in his hand, which is said to have hailed with delightful music the rising sun, and in melancholy tones to have mourned his departure. The introduction of this celebrated Lyre, on a modern occasion, will be censured as an anachronism by those only who think that its chords have been touched unskilfully.

HARP of Memnon ! sweetly strung

To the music of the spheres; While the Hero's dirge is sung,

Breathe enchantment to our ears.

As the Sun's descending beams,

Glancing o'er thy feeling wire, Kindle every chord that gleams

Like a ray of heavenly fire:

E 2

Let thy numbers, soft and slow,

O'er the plain with carnage spread, Sooth the dying, while they flow

To the memory of the dead.

Bright as VENUS, newly born,

Blushing at her maiden charms; Fresh from ocean rose the Morn,

When the trumpet blew to arms.

O that time had staid his flight,

Ere that Morning left the main ! Fatal as the EGYPTIAN night,

When the eldest born were slain !

Lash'd to madness by the wind,

As the Red Sea surges roar, Leave a gloomy gulph behind,

And devour the shrinking shore ;

Thus, with overwhelming pride,

GALLIA's brightest, boldest boast,
In a deep and dreadful tide,

the BRITISH host.

Dauntless these their station held,

Though, with unextinguish'd ire, Gallia's legions, thrice repell’d,

Thrice return'd through blood and fire.

Thus, above the storms of time,

Towering to the sacred spheres, Stand the Pyramids sublime,

Rocks amid the flood of years !

Now the veteran Chief drew nigh,

Conquest towering on his crest, Valour beaming from his eye,

Pity bleeding in his breast.

BRITAIN saw him thus advance

In her Guardian-Angel's form; But he lower'd on hostile FRANCE,

Like the Demon of the Storm.

On the whirlwind of the war

High he rode in vengeance dire; To his friends a leading star,

To his foes consuming fire.

Then the mighty pour'd their breath,

Slaughter feasted on the brave; 'Twas the Carnival of Death !

'Twas the Vintage of the Grave !

Charged with ABERCROMBIE's doom,

Lightning wing'd a cruel ball: 'Twas the Herald of the Tomb,

And the HERO felt the call.

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