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In the presence of God's mighty Champion, grow pale

Oh never had Judah an hour of such mirth!
Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

II.
Bring myrtle and palm-bring the boughs of each tree
That is worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free. *
From that day, when the footsteps of Israel shone,

With a light not their own, through the Jordan's deep tide, Whose waters shrunk back as the Ark glided on-t

Oh never had Judah an hour of such pride!
Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER,

AIR.—Haydn.

I.

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,

When the spirit leaves this sphere,
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her

To those she long hath mourn'd for here?
Hearts, from which’twas death to sever,

Eyes, this world can ne'er restore,
There, as warm, as bright as ever,
Shall meet us and be lost no more.

II.
When wearily we wander, asking

Of earth and heaven, where are they,
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking -

Blest, and thinking bliss would stay!
Hope still lifts her radiant finger

Pointing to the eternal home,
Upon whose portal yet they linger,

Looking back for us to come. *"Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtlebranches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."-Neh. yiii. 15.

+ " And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firin on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground.”-Josh. iii. 17.

W

III.
Alas-alas-doth Hope deceive us ?

Shall friendship-love-shall all those ties
That bind a moment, and then leave us,

Be found again where nothing dies ?
Oh! if no other boon were given,

To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not try to win a heaven

Where all we love shall live again?

War,

war,

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.
AIR.- Novello.

I.
(“WAR against Babylon !” shout we around, *

Be our banners through earth unfurld; Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound - 4

“War against Babylon !" shout through the world! Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,

Thy day of pride is ended now;
And the dark curse of Israel's daughters
Breaks, like a thunder-cloud, over thy brow!

war against Babylon!

II.
Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,

Set the standard of God on high
Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields,

"Zion" our watchword, and“ vengeance” our cry! Woe! woe!-the time of thy visitation ||

Is come, proud Land, thy doom is cast-
And the bleak wave of desolation
Sweeps o’erthy guilty head, at last !

War, war, war against Babylon!
* "Shout against her round about.”—Jer. i. 15.

+"Set up a standard in the land, blow the trumpet among the nations, prepare the nations against her, call together against her the kingdoms, etc. etc.- 1b.li. 27.

“Oh thou, that dwellest upon many waters, thy end is come."-Jer. i. 13.

"Make bright the arrows; gather the shields....get the standard upon the walls of Babylon."-Ib.

|| "Woe unto them! for their day, is come, the time of their xvisitation.”-16.

A MELOLOGUE

Upon National Music.

ADVERTISEMENT. These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin' Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of Success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry, which has cost put little labour to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using “ the outlandish term monopoly.But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, “ If 'tis not sense,

at least 'tis Greek.” To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that, by “Melologue,” I mean that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T. M.

MELOLOGUI.

There breathes a language, known and felt

Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,
That language of the soul is felt and known.

From those meridian plains,

Where oft, of old, ơn some high tower,
The soft Peruvian pour’d his midnight strains,
And call'd his distant love with such sweet power,

That, when she heard the lonely lay,
Not worlds could keep her from his arms away;

To the bleak climes of polar night,

Where, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,

As blithe as if the blessed light
Of vernal Phobus burn'd upon his brow.

Oh Music! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same;

And, faithful as the mighty sea
To the pale star that o'erits realm presides,

The spell-bound tides
Of human passion rise and fall for thee!

Greek Air.
List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,

While, from Ilissus' silvery springs,
She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn;
And by her side, in music's charm dissolving,

“A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, “For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.”—Garcilasso de la Vega, in Sir Paul Rycaut's translation:

Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,
Dreams of bright days that never can return!
When Athens nursed her olive bough,

With hands by tyrant power unchain'd,
And braided for the muse's brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd.
When heroes trod each classic field

Where coward feet now faintly falter;
When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar!

Flourish of Trumpet.
Hark! 'tis the sound that charms

The war-steed's wakening ears !-
Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears ;

And, though her fond heartsink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound !
See! from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war;
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights ;

A conqueror oft-a hero never-
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 'twere like his mountain rill,

And gush'd for ever!
Oh Music! here, even here,
Amid this thoughtless, wild career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.

There is an air, which oft among the rocks
Of his own loved land, at evening hour,

Istieard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks; Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind

With tenderest thoughts—would bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind,

And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why
He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these ?
Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar;

Sweet notes of home-of love-are all he hears;
And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before,

Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears!

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