FALLEN is thy throne, Oh Israel!

Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,

Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee

On Etham's barren shore?

That fire from heav'n which led thee,
Now lights thy path no more.

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"Go," said the Lord-"ye conquerors!
Steep in her blood your swords,
And raze to earth her battlements;
For they are not the Lord's!
Till Zion's mournful daughter

O'er kindred bones shall tread,
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter,
Shall hide but half her dead!"

THOU art, O God! the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,

And all things fair and bright are thine.

When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven;

Those hues that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered dies;-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ;
And every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.


OH! thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceiv'd and wounded here,
We could not fly to thee.

The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes are flown;
And he, who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of wo.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope, that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanquish'd too!
Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love

Come brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touch'd by thee, grows bright,
With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light,
We never saw by day!




THE bird, let loose in Eastern skies,*
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam. ·

But high she shoots through air, and light,
Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

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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,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of thee!

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 which 't is bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wond'rous 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!

*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 the is destined.

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There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity!

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!


BOWLES' sonnets are the finest in the English language. They are like the exquisite poetry of Collins. They have all his tenderness, much of his fine fancy, and the same "rich economy of words that are halo'd with thought." Their music dwells long upon the ear, and their melancholy pensiveness of feeling soothes the heart.


LANGUID and sad, and slow, from day to day
I journey on, yet pensive turn to view,

Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue,
The streams and vales and hills that steal away.
So fares it with the children of the earth.

For when life's goodly prospect opens round,
Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground
Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.
But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles;

And soon a longing look like me they cast
Back o'er the pleasing prospect of the past.
Yet fancy points, where still far onward smiles
Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends,
Till cheerless on their path the night descends.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide
That laves the pebbled shores; and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,
And yon forsaken tow'r that time has rent:
The lifted oar far off with silver gleami
Is touch'd, and the hush'd billows seem to sleep.
Sooth'd by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast

A kindred stillness steals, and bids her rest;
Whilst sad airs stilly sigh along the deep,.
Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre,
Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn, expire.


YE holy tow'rs that shade the wave-worn steep,
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time
Assail you, and the wintry whirlwind sweep.
For, far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,
Here Charity has fix'd her chosen seat;

Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour

Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tow'r,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry,
Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the grave


O TWEED! a stranger that with wandering feet
O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile,
(If so his weary thoughts he may beguile)
Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.
The waving branches that romantic bend

O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow.
The murmurs of thy wandering wave below
Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.
Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
When spring returns in all her wonted pride,
The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more;

Yet here with pensive peace could I abide,
Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,
To muse upon thy banks at even tide.


EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Veiling with gentlest touch the landscape still,
The lonely battlement, and farthest hill
And wood-I think of those that have no friend:
Who now perhaps by melancholy led,

From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts,
Retiring, wander mid thy lonely haunts

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