1 The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined. 2 "I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enemies."-Jeremiah, xii. 7. "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."-Jer. xiv. 21. "The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree; fair, and of goodly fruit," &c.-Jer. xi. 16. WHO IS THE MAID? ST. JEROME'S LOVE. WHO is the Maid my spirit seeks, 8 Through cold reproof and slander's blight? Its beam is kindled from above. I chose not her, my heart's elect, From those who seek their Maker's shrine "Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord's."-Jer. v. 10. "Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place.”—Jer. vii. 32. 8 These lines were suggested by a passage in one of St. Jerome's Letters, replying to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated respecting his intimacy with the matron Paula:-"Numquid me vestes sericæ, nitentes gemmæ, picta "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."-Jer. facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio? Nulla fuit alia Romæ ma xvii. 6. tronarum, quæ meam possit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu pene cæcata."-Epist. "Si tibi putem." In gems and garlands proudly deck'd, Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away. THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. (AIR. STEVENSON.) THIS world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow There's nothing true, but Heaven' And false the light on Glory's plume, And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Poor wand'rers of a stormy day! From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way— There's nothing calm, but Heaven! OH, THOU! WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR. (AIR.-HAYDN.) "He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."-Psalm cxlvii. 3. Or, Thou! who dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, 1 Ου γαρ κρουσφορείν την δακρυούσαν δει.—Chrysost. Homil. 8, in Epist. ad Tim. 2 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 marriage-bells seemed scarcely out If, when deceived and wounded here, Must weep those tears alone. When joy no longer sooths or cheers, Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright WEEP NOT FOR THOSE. AIR.-AVISON. WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb, Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it; "Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchain'd it, To water that Eden where first was its source. Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,1 Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer. Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale, And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow. On, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying, Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own. Weep not for her-in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd; And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world. THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. (AIR. STEVENSON.) THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine; My censer's breath the mountain airs, And silent thoughts my only prayers.' My choir shall be the moonlight waves, I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, All light and silence, like thy Throne ; And the pale stars shall be, at night, The only eyes that watch my rite. Thy Heaven, on whiclr 'tis bliss to look, Shall be my pure and shining book, Where I shall read, in words of flame, The glories of thy wondrous name. I'll read thy anger in the rack That clouds awhile the day-beam's track; Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness, breaking through. There's nothing bright, above, below, Pii orant tacitè. 2 I have so much 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. There's nothing dark, below, above, But in its gloom I trace thy Love, And meekly wait that moment, when Thy touch shall turn all bright again! SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL MIRIAM'S SONG. (AIR.-AVISON.3) "And Miriam the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went 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 How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free. Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the LORD! sword. Who shall return to tell Egyp story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the LORD hath look'd out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free! GO, LET ME WEEP. Go, let me weep-there's bliss in tears, Effaced by every drop that steals. "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."-Ezod. xiv. 24. |