280

HEBREW MELODY.

In the deserts they make them a home,
And the mountains awake to their cry-
For the frown of Jehovah hath come,

And his anger is red in the sky!

Thy tender ones throng at the brink,
But the waters are gone from the well;
They gaze on the rock, and then think

Of the gush of the stream from its cell-
How they came to its margin before,

And drank in their innocent mirth:

Away! it is sealed-and no more

Shall the fountain give freshness to earth.

The hearts of the mighty are bowed,
And the lowly are haggard with care-
The voices of mothers are loud,

As they shriek the wild note of despair..
Oh, Jerusalem! mourn through thy halls,
And bend to the dust in thy shame;
The doom that thy spirit appals,

Is famine the sword-and the flame!

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,

She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.

Bb

282

THE STEAMBOAT.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,
With heaped and glistening bells

Falls round her fast, in ringing showers,

With every wave that swells;
And flaming o'er the midnight deep,

In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep

Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,

When winds are loud, and billows reel,

She thunders foaming by!

When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green
That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart
Still sounding through the storm;

Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The Pharos of the shore.

THE STEАМВОАТ.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,
Who trims his narrowed sail;

To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep
Her broad breast to the gale;

And many a foresail, scooped and strained,
Shall break from yard and stay,

Before this smoky wreath has stained

The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,

I see yon quivering mast;

The black throat of the hunted cloud
Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and whirled like winnowing chaff,

The giant surge shall fling

His tresses o'er yon pennon staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap

With floods of living fire;

Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,

O think of those for whom the night
Shall never wake in day!

283

'Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now

Is brooding like a gentle Spirit o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling-'tis the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train

Is sweeping past-yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud-the air is stirred