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Thou whose spell can raise the dead

Bid the prophet's form appear. “Samuel, raise thy buried head!

King, behold the phantom seer ! " Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud: Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry; His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame, Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.

“ Why is my sleep disquieted ?
Who is he that calls the dead?
Is it thou, O king? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow, when with me;
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well, but for a day;
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide:
Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
Son and sire, the house of Saul!"



FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine,

And health and youth possess'd me; My goblets blush'd from every vine,

And lovely forms caress'd me;

I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes,

. And felt my soul grow tender ; All earth can give, or mortal prize,

Was mine of regal splendor.

I strive to number o'er what days

Remembrance can discover, Which all of life or earth displays

Would lure me to live over.

There rose no day, there roll'd no hour

Of pleasure unembitter'd; And not a trapping deck'd my power

That gall'd not while it glitter'd.

The serpent of the field, by art

And spells, is won from harming; But that which coils around the heart,

Oh! who hath power of charming ?


I saw thee weep—the big bright tear

Came o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear

A violet dropping dew:
I saw thee smile—the sapphire's blaze

Beside thee ceased to shine;
It could not match the living rays

That fill'd that glance of thine.

As clouds from yonder sun receive

A deep and mellow dye,
Which scarce the shade of coming eve

Can banish from the sky,
Those smiles upon the moodiest mind

Their own pure joy impart;
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind

That lightens o'er the heart.


Thy days are done, thy fame begun;

Thy country's strains record
The triumphs of her chosen Son,

The slaughters of his sword !
The deeds he did, the fields he won,

The freedom he restored !

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free

Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flow'd from thee

Disdain'd to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,

Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name, our charging hosts along,

Shall be the battle-word !
Thy fall, the theme of choral song

From virgin voices pour'd !
To weep would do thy glory wrong;

Thou shalt not be deplored.



WARRIORS and Chiefs ! should the shaft or the

Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.

Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!

It will not list to wisdom's lore,

Nor music's voice can lure it; But there it stings for evermore

The soul that must endure it.

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The monarch saw, and shook,

And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless wax'd his look,

And tremulous his voice. “Let the men of lore appear,

The wisest of the earth, And expound the words of fear, Which mar our royal mirth."

Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood

Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore
But now they were not sage,

They saw-but knew no more.

A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,

He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,

The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night, -

The morrow proved it true.

“Belshazzar's grave is made,

His kingdom pass'd away,
He, in the balance weigh'd,

Is light and worthless clay.
The shroud, his robe of state,

His canopy the stone;
The Mede is at his gate!

The Persian on his throne


Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant-clear-but, oh how cold!



WERE my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,
I need not have wander'd from far Galilee;
It was but abjuring my creed to efface
The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race.

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee!
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free!
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high,
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die.

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst oetow,
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know;
In his hand is my heart and my hope and in thino
The land and the life which for him I resign.


OH, Mariamne! now for thee

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ;
Revenge is lost in

And wild remorse to rage succeeding

Oh, Mariamne! where art thou ?

While sadly we gazed on the river
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading ;

Which rollid on in freedom below,
Ah, couldst thou—thou wouldst pardon now, They demanded the song; but, oh never
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. That triumph the stranger shall know!

May this right hand be wither'd for ever, And is she dead ?-and did they dare

Ere it string our high harp for the foe! Obey my frenzy's jealous raving? My wrath but doom'd my own despair;

On the willow that harp is suspended, The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving.- Oh Salem ! its sound should be free; But thou art cold, my murder'd love!

And the hour when thy glories were ended And this dark heart is vainly craving

But left me that token of thee:
For her who soars alone above,

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.

With the voice of the spoiler by me!
She's gone, who shared my diadem ;

She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; I swept that flower from Judah's stem

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. Whose leaves for me alone were blooming, And mine's the guilt and mine the hell, THE Assykjan came down like the wolf on the fold, This bosom's desolation dooming;

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And I have earn'd those tortures well,

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, Which unconsumed are still consuming ! When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

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Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF


That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, I beheld thee, Oh Sion! when render'd to Rome :

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 'Twas the last sun went down, and the flames of And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, thy fall Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew

still! I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,

But through it there rollid not the breath of his And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in

pride: vain.

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ;

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, shrine.

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And now on that mountain I stood on that day,

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away;

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the stead,

sword, And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head! Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord' But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign: And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be,

Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.

A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveil'd-
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine

And there it stood, all formless—but divine:
BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;

And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake: We sat down and wept by the waters " Is man more just than God? Is man more puro Of Babel, and thought of the day

Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, Creatures of clay-rain dwellers in the dust!

Made Salem's high places his prey; The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
And ye, oh her desolate daughters !

Things of a day ! you wither ere the night,
Were scatter'd all weeping away.

Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"

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|And revell’d among men and things divine,

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, Ar Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the In honor of the sacred war for him, original MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of The God who was on earth and is in heaven, Guarini's Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. from Titian to Ariosto; and the inkstand and chair, That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, the tomb and the house of the latter. But as mis- I have employ'd my penance to record fortune has a greater interest for posterity, and lit- How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. tle or none for the contemporary, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna

II. attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or But this is o'er-my pleasant task is done ;the monument of Ariosto—at least it had this effect My long sustaining friend of many years ! on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer If I do blot thy final page with tears, gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unne- Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none cessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! spectator. Ferrara is much decayed, and depop- Which ever playing round me came and smiled, ulated; the castle still exists entire; and I saw the And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, Thou too art gone and so is my delight: according to the annal of Gibbon.

And therefore do I weep and irly bleed
With this last bruise upon a broken reed,
Thou too art ended-what is left me now?
For I have anguish yet to bear-and how?

I know not that-but in the innate force

Of my own spirit shall be found resource,

I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,
Long years !-It tries the thrilling frame to bear Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad-and why
And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song-

Oh Leonora! wilt not thou reply? Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; I was indeed delirious in my heart Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,

To lift my love so lofty as thou art; And the mind's canker in its savage mood, But still my frenzy was not of the mind; When the impatient thirst of light and air I knew my fault, and feel my punishment Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate, Not less because I suffer it unbent. Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind. With a hot sense of heaviness and pain;

But let them go, or torture as they will, And bare, at once, Captivity display'd

My heart can multiply thine image still; Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, Successful love may sate itself away, Which nothing through its bars admits, save day The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate And tasteless food, which I have eat alone To have all feeling save the one decay, Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;

And every passion into one dilate, And I can banquet like a beast of prey,

As rapid rivers into ocean pour;
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore
Which is my lair, and-it may be my grave.
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ;

Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry For I have battled with mine agony,

Of minds and bodies in captivity. And made me wings wherewith to overfly

And hark! the lash and the increasing howl, The narrow circus of my dungeon wall,

And the half-inarticulate blasphemy! And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; There be some here with worse than frenzy foul,

Some who do still goad on the o'er-labor'd mind, ¡Oh! not dismay'd—but awed, like One ab see,
And dim the little light that's left behind And in that sweet severity there was
With needless torture, as their tyrants will A something which all softness did surpass-
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:

I know not how-thy genius master'd mine With these and with their victims am I class'd, My star stood still before thee :-if it were 'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have Presumptuous thus to love without design, pass’d;

That sad fatality hath cost me dear; 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close: But thou art dearest still, and I should be So let it be-for then I shall repose.

Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thes

The very love which lock'd me to my chain IV. I have been patient, let me be so yet;

Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest,

Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, I had forgotten half I would forget,

And look to thee with undivided breast,
But it revives-oh! would it were my lot

And foil the ingenuity of Pain.
To be forgetful as I am forgot!
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell

In this vast lazar-house of many woes?
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade

It is no marvel-from my very birth Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind;

And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth: Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his seperate hell

Of objects all inanimate I made

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, For we are crowded in our solitudes

And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, Many, but each divided by the wall,

Where I did lay me down within the shade Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ;

Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, While all can hear, none heed his neighbor's call Though I was chid for wandering; and the wise None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all,

Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said Who was not made to be the mate of these,

of such materials wretched men were made, Nor bound between Distraction and Disease.

And such a truant boy would end in wo, Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here?

And that the only lesson was a blow; Who have debased me in the minds of men,

And then they smote me, and I did not weep, Debarring me the usage of my own,

But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt Blighting my life in best of its career, Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear? The visions which arise without a sleep.

Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again Would I not pay them back these pangs again,

And with my years my soul began to pant And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan?

With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; The struggle to be calm, and cold distress,

And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, Which undermines our Stoical success?

But undefined and wandering, till the day No !-still too proud to be vindictive-I

I found the thing I sought, and that was thee; Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die.

And then I lost my being all to be Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake

Absorb'd in thine-the world was pass'd away I weed all bitterness from out my breast,

Thou didst annihilate the earth to me!
It hath no business where thou art a guest;
Thy brother hates—but I can not detest;

Thou pitiest not-but I can not forsake.

I loved all solitude-but little thought

To spend I know not what of life, remote
Look on a love which knows not to despair, From all communion with existence, save
But all unquench'd is still my better part, The maniac and his tyrant; had I been
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, Their fellow, many years ere this had seen
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave,
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave?
Till struck,-forth fies the all-ethereal dart! Perchance in such a cell we suffer more
And thus at the collision of thy name

Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore; The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, The world is all before him-mine is here, And for a moment all things as they were Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. Flit by me; they are gone, I am the same. What though he perish, he may lift his eye, And yet my love without ambition grew;

And with a dying glance upbraid the sky,
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew I will not raise my own in such reproof,
A princess was no love-mate for a bard;

Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was
Sufficient to itself, its own reward;

And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas !

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, But with a sense of its decay :- I see And yet I did not venture to repine.

Unwonted lights along my prison shine, Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine,

And a strange demon, who is vexing me Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below Hallowd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; The feeling of the healthful and the free; Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so, Hath robed thee with a glory, and array'd Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd And all that may be borne, or can debase

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