O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam,
And the sad City lift her crownless head;
And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam,
Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead.
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers,
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers,
And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand,
And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves;
With fettered steps we left our pleasant land,
Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves.
The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep,
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep,
'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep,
Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves.

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy:

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy,

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare, And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer,

Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed th' irradiate dome.

Wolfe.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning : By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

STANZAS.

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
That time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain! But when I speak, thou dost not say, What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!'
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave-
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may sooth this heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

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