WHEN the D-l engag'd with Job's patience in battle,
Tooth and nail strove to worry him out of his life, He robb'd him of children, goods, houses, and cattle, But, mark me--he ne'er thought of taking his Wife! But Heaven at length Job's forbearance rewards,
And soon double wealth, double honour arrives; Heaven doubles his children, goods, houses, and herdsBut we don't hear a word of a couple of Wives!
[From the Morning Chronicle,, April 6.]
[This Poem was recited at the Kilkenny Theatre in Ireland, at the close of the season, June 1810. The performers at the Theatre were gentlemen of the neighbouring country; and the profits of the performance were given to the different charitable institutions in Kilkenny. We understand that this Poem was written and recited by Mr. Moore, the elegant translator of Anacreon.]
(STRAIN OF MUSIC.)
THERE breathes the 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, on 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 well-known lay,
No worlds could keep her from his arms away ;.
To those bleak realms of polar night,
Where the youth of Lapland's sky
Bids his rapid rein-deer fly,
And sings along the darkling waste of snow,
As blithe as if the blessed light
Of vernal Phoebus burn'd upon his brow:
O Music! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same,
And faithful as the mighty sea
To the pole-star that o'er each realm presides,
The spell-bound tides
Of human passion rise and fall for thee.
List! 't is a Grecian maid that sings,
While from Ilyssus' silvery springs
She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn,
While by her side in Music's charm dissolving,
Some patriot youth the glorious past revolving,
Dreams of bright days that never can return;
When Athens nurs'd her olive brow
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,
And ev'ry arm was Freedom's shield,
And ev'ry heart was Freedom's altar.
(GREEK AIR, INTERRUPTED BY A TRUMPET.)
Hark! 't is the sound that charms
The war-steed's wakening ears-
Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy soldier, when that sound she hears;
And though her fond heart sinks 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 't were like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever!
O Music, here, even here,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power ;
There is an air, which oft among the rocks
Of his own lov'd land, at the evening hour,
Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks!Oh, ev'ry note of it would thrill his mind
With tend'rest thoughts, and bring about 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 to 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.
(RENDS DE VACHE, INTERRUPTED BY A TRUMPET.)
But wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior men.
O War! when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the lab'ring storm,
Thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,
And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys.
Nor, Music, through thy breathing sphere
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,
Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking
From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.
(SPANISH PATRIOT'S SONG.),
Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold enthusiastic strain,
Like morning's music, on the air,
And seems in ev'ry note to swear,
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,
By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain a conqueror's glory.
(SPANISH AIR concluded.)
But ah! if vain the patriot Spaniard's zeal,
If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's lights,
Can break or melt the blood-cemented seal,
That shuts to close the book of Europe's rights;
What song shall then, in sadness, tell
Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remember'd well,
Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded?
What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge, at Memory's shrine ?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
O Erin! thine.
(MELANCHOLY IRISH AIR, SUCCEEDED BY A LIVELY ONE.)
Blest notes of mirth, ye spring from sorrow's lay,
Like the blithe vesper of the bird that sings
In the bright sunshine of an April day,
While the cold shower yet hangs upon his wings.
Long may the Irish heart repeat
An echo to those lively strains,
And, when the stranger's ear shall meet
That melody on distant plains,
Oh! he will feel his soul expand
With grateful warmth, and, sighing, say
"Thus speaks the music of the land,
Where welcome ever lights the stranger's way,
When still the woe of others to beguile
Is e'en the gayest heart's most lov'd employ,
Where Grief herself will generously smile,
Through her own tears, to share another's joy."
[From the same, April 9.]
HER mourning is all make believe,
She's gay as any linnet :
With weepers she has tipp'd her sleeve,
The while she's laughing in it.
WELLINGTON'S TRIUMPH, AND PORTUGAL
BY WILLIAM THOMAS Fitzgerald, Esa.
THE blow is struck! the awful conflict's o'er,
And shouts of triumph reach Britannia's shore !
The baffled Chief of France, in wild dismay,
Resigns the honours of his former day,
And, with his legions, is by Wellesley driven,
As clouds of locusts by the winds of heaven!
Unlike the warriors of a nobler age,
His flight is mark'd with more than Vandal rage!
By peasants murder'd! and by towns in flame!
Their ashes records of Massena's shame!
The smoking ruins are descried from far,
With all the horrors of his savage war :
The mountain streams run red with native blood,
And mangled bodies choke each river's flood!
While Lusitania's ravag'd plains declare
The flying Gaul has left a desert there!
Long shall the crimes of France in mem'ry stand,
Recorded with the curse of every land;
But Britain's triumphs, like her honour pure,
Shall to the utmost date of time endure!
Loud as the thunder let the cannon's sound
Proclaim the tidings to the realms around;
Nations, enslav'd by Gaul's oppressive power,
Shall shake their chains with joy, and bless the hour:
The very wretches, who in silence wait
-The Despot's nod, and tremble while they hate,
Shall feel some pleasure warni the torpid breast,
To see their Tyrant in his turn oppress'd;
To mark his pallid cheek, his hagard eye,
His stifled anguish, and his bitter sigh!
In the bright temple of immortal Fame
Glory inscribes her favourite Wellesley's name!
Amidst the high-plum'd champions of the land,
In future ages Wellington shall stand;.
|