Silent they saw Zorobabel advance:
Quick on Apame shot his timid glance,
With downward eye he paused a moment mute,
And with light finger touched the softer lute.
Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause,
And bent her head, and sweetly smiled applause.
Why is the warrior's cheek so red ?
Why downward drops his musing head?
Why that slow step, that faint advance,
That keen yet quick retreating glance?
That crested hand in war towered high,
No backward glance disgraced that eye,
No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread
When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead:
Strange tumult now his bosom moves—
The warrior fears because he loves.
Why does the youth delight to rove
Amid the dark and lonely grove?
Why in the throng where all are gay,
His wandering eye with meaning fraught,
Sits he alone in silent thought?
Silent he sits; for far away
His passioned soul delights to stray;
Recluse he roves, and strives to shun
All human-kind because he loves but One!
Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest;
But not because the sparkling bowl
To rapture lifts thy wakened soul.
But not because of power possest,
Not that the nations dread thy nod,
And princes reverence thee their earthly God.
Even on a monarch's solitude
Care, the black spectre, will intrude,
The bowl brief pleasure can bestow,
The purple cannot shield from woe.
But, King of Persia, thou art blest,
For Heaven, who raised thee thus the world above,
Has made thee happy in Apame's love!
Oh! I have seen his fond looks trace
Each angel feature of her face,
Rove o'er her form with eager eye,
And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh.
Lo! from his brow with mimic frown
Apame takes the sacred crown;
Her faultless form, her lovely face
Add to the diadem new grace:
And subject to a woman's laws
Darius sees and smiles applause!
He ceased, and silent still remained the throng,
Whilst rapt attention owned the power of song.
Then loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow,
From every voice the thundering plaudits flow;
Darius smiled, Apame's sparkling eyes
Glanced on the king, and woman won the prize.
Now silent sat the expectant crowd: Alone
The victor Hebrew gazed not on the throne;
With deeper hue his cheek distempered glows,
With statelier stature loftier now he rose;
Heavenward he gazed, regardless of the throng,
And poured with awful voice sublimer song.
Ancient of Days! Eternal Truth! one hymn,
One holier strain the bard shall raise to thee,
Thee powerful! thee benevolent! thee just!
Friend! Father! all in all! the vine's rich blood,
The monarch's might, and women's conquering charms,
These shall we praise alone! O ye who sit
Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour
The healthful bowl, remember Him whose dews,
Whose rains, whose sun, matured the growing fruit,
Creator and Preserver! reverence Him,
O Thou, who from Thy throne dispensest life
And death, for He has delegated power,
And thou shalt one day, at the throne of God,
Render most strict account! O ye who gaze
Enrapt on beauty's fascinating form,
Gaze on with love, and loving beauty, learn
To shun abhorrent all the mental eye
Beholds deformed and foul; for so shall love
Climb to the source of virtue. God of truth!
All-just! all-mighty! I should ill deserve
Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song,
If, so content with * ear-deep melodies
To please all profitless, I did not pour
Severer strains; of truth-eternal truth,
Unchanging justice, universal love.
Such strains awake the soul to loftiest thought;
Such strains the blessed spirits of the good
Waft, grateful incense! to the halls of Heaven.
The dying notes still murmured on the string, When from his throne arose the raptured king. About to speak he stood, and waved his hand, And all expectant sat the obedient band.
Then just and generous, thus the monarch cries,
Be thine, Zorobabel, the well-earned prize.
The purple robe of state thy form shall fold,
The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold;
The golden couch, the car, and honoured chain,
Requite the merits of thy favoured strain,
And raised supreme the ennobled race among,
Be called my cousin, for the victor song.
Nor these alone the victor song shall bless,
Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt possess."
"Fallen is Jerusalem!" the Hebrew cries, And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes, "Hurled to the earth, by rapine's vengeful rod, Polluted lies the temple of our God.
Far in a foreign land, her sons remain,
Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain;
In fruitless woe they wear the wearying years,
And steep the bread of bitterness in tears.
O monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men,
Restore us to those ruined walls again!
Allow our race to rear that sacred dome,
To live in liberty, and die at home."
So spake Zorobabel. Thus woman's praise
Availed again Jerusalem to raise,
Called forth the sanction of the despot's nod,
And freed the nation best beloved of God.
* This expression is from Owen Felltham.
POEMS ON THE SLAVE-TRADE.
I am innocent of this blood, SEE YE TO IT!
mad hands! for ever on your plain Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood? For ever must your Niger's tainted flood
Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain? Hold your mad hands! what demon prompts to rear The arm of slaughter? on your savage shore Can hell-sprung glory claim the feast of gore, With laurels watered by the widow's tear Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear! And like the desolating whirlwind's sweep, Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep; For the pale fiend cold-hearted Commerce there Breathes his gold-gendered pestilence afar. And calls, to share the prey, his kindred demon War.
WHY dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair,
And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries?
Before the gale the laden vessel flies;
The heavens all-favouring smile, the breeze is fair;
Hark to the clamours of the exulting crew;
Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies;
Why dost thou shriek, and strain thy red-swoln eyes,
As the white sail dim lessens from thy view?
Go pine in want, and anguish, and despair,
There is no mercy found in human-kind—
Go, widow, to thy grave, and rest thee there!
But may the God of justice bid the wind
Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave,
And bless with liberty and death the slave!
OH, he is worn with toil! the big drops run
Down his dark cheek; hold-hold thy merciless hand,
Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command
O'erwearied nature sinks. The scorching sun,
As pitiless as proud prosperity,
Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies,
Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,
While that inhuman trader lifts on high
The mangling scourge. O ye who at your ease Sip the blood-sweetened beverage! thoughts like these Haply ye scorn: I thank thee, gracious God,
That I do feel upon my cheek the glow
Of indignation, when beneath the rod
A sable brother writhes in silent woe.
'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
As undisturbed as justice! but no more
The wretched slave as on his native shore,
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!
Though through the toil and anguish of the day
No tear escaped him, not one suffering groan
Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
In bitterness; thinking that far away,
Though the gay Negroes join the midnight song,
Though merriment resounds on Niger's shore,
She whom he loves, far from the cheerful throng
Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door
With dim-grown eye, silent and woe-begone,
And weeps for him who will return no more.
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