Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty'S Bloom.[292]

I.

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:[li]

II.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,[lj] And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

III.

Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou--who tell'st me to forget,[lk] Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.[ll]

[Published in the Examiner, April 23, 1815.]

MY SOUL IS DARK.

I.

My soul is dark--Oh! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth again: If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

II.

But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, And break at once--or yield to song.

I SAW THEE WEEP.

I.

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 filled that glance of thine.

II.

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 unto the moodiest mind Their own pure joy impart; Their sunshine leaves a glow behind That lightens o'er the heart.

THY DAYS ARE DONE.

I.

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!

II.

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free Thou shall not taste of death! The generous blood that flowed from thee Disdained to sink beneath: Within our veins its currents be, Thy spirit on our breath!

III.

Thy name, our charging hosts along, Shall be the battle-word! Thy fall, the theme of choral song From virgin voices poured! To weep would do thy glory wrong: Thou shalt not be deplored.

SAUL.

I.

Thou whose spell can raise the dead, Bid the Prophet's form appear. "Samuel, raise thy buried head! King, behold the phantom Seer!" Earth yawned; he stood the centre of a cloud: Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.[lm] Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; His hand was withered, and his veins were dry; His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there, Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came. Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.[ln]

II.

"Why is my sleep disquieted? Who is he that calls the dead? Is it thou, O King? Behold, Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:[lo] 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!"

Seaham, Feb., 1815.

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE.

I.

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, Heed not the corse, though a King's, in your path:[lp] Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

II.

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,[lq] 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.

III.

Farewell to others, but never we part, Heir to my Royalty--Son of my heart![lr] Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!

Seaham, 1815.