Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Mourn not for her, the young bride of the vale,' Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now; And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow; From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown ;- Weep not for her, -in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd, THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My choir shall be the moonlight waves, caves, Or when the stillness of the sea, Where I shall read, in words of flame, Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness, breaking through! E'en more than music, breathes of There's nothing bright, above, below, From flowers that bloom to stars that Thee! I'll seek by day, some glade unknown, 1 This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne Church, October 31, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriagebells seemed scarcely out of our ears, when we glow, But in its light my soul can see There's nothing dark, below, above, heard of her death. During her last delirium, she sang several hymns in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were 30me from the present collection (particularly There's nothing bright but Heaven'), which this very interesting girl had often heard during the summer. SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. MIRIAM'S SONG. AIR-Avison.1 And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and a!! the women vent out after her with timbrels and with dances.'-Exod. xv. 20. SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord, His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!— Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? GO, LET ME WEEP. Go, let me weep! there's bliss in tears, Effaced by every drop that steals. E.faced by every drop that steals, Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew 'I have so altered the character of this air, which is from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognised, And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw, But left no trace of sweets behind.-The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves Is cold, is faint, to those that swell The heart, where pure repentance grieves O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well! Leave me to sigh o'er days that flew More idly than the summer's wind, And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw, But left no trace of sweets behind. 2 And it came to pass, that in the morning watch, the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians.'Exod. xiv. 24. |