THE poem of Palestine has been lately much indebted to the taste and genius of the Musical Professor of Oxford. It is unnecessary, and the author would feel it presumptuous to say any thing in praise of a composer so eminent as Dr. Crotch; but he cannot refrain from expressing how strongly he feels the distinction shewn to his lines, by making them the humble vehicle of harmony so perfect. PALESTINE. REFT of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, Mourn, widow'd Queen, forgotten Sion, mourn! Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne, Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone? While suns unblest their angry lustre fling, And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring?Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy view'd? Where now thy might, which all those kings subdu'd? No martial myriads muster in thy gate; No suppliant nations in thy Temple wait; No prophet bards, thy glittering courts among, Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song: |