HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING. (AIR. ANONYMOUS.) How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, Whose theme is in the skies Like morning larks, that sweeter sing Though Love his magic lyre may tune, How purer far the sacred lute, Round which Devotion ties Sweet flow'rs that turn to heav'nly fruit, And palm that never dies. Though War's high-sounding harp may be Most welcome to the hero's ears, Alas, his chords of victory Are wet, all o'er, with human tears. How far more sweet their numbers run, No victor, but th' Eternal One, GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT. (AIR. STEVENSON.) Go forth to the Mount - bring the olive-branch home *, And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come! From that time, when the moon upon Ajalon's vale, Looking motionless down‡, saw the kings of the earth, 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! * "And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches," &c. &c. Neh. viii. 15. +"For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so and there was very great gladness. - Ib. 17. ‡ "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon.”— Josh. x. 12. Bring myrtle and palm- bring the boughs of each tree That's 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†— home, And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come! "Fetch olive-branches and pine-branches, and myrtlebranches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."- Neh. viii. 15. t "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the LORD stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."— Josh. iii. 17. IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER. (AIR. HAYDN.) Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, Hearts, from which 'twas death to sever, When wearily we wander, asking Of earth and heav'n, where are they, Hope still lifts her radiant finger |