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a poem :

BY JOHN PIERPONT, Esq.

I love to breathe, where Gilead sheds her balm ;
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ;
I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews;
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse :
In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose,
And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose.

SECOND EDITION.

BOSTON:

PUBLISHED BY WELLS

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DISTRICT OF MARYLAND, ss. BE it remembered, That on this thirteenth day of November, in the forty-first year of the Independence of the United States of America, John Pierpont, Esquire, of the said District, hath deposited in this Office, the Title of a Book, the right whereof be claims as author, in the words following, to wit :Airs of Palestine; a Poem : by John Pierpont, Esquire.

“I love to breathe, where Gilead sheds her balm ;
“I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ;
“I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews ;

I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse:
“ In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose,

" And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose." In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled “ An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprie tors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned,” and also to the act, entitled “ An act, supplementary to an act, entitled an act, for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned,” and extending the benefits thereof, to the arts of designing, engraving and etching torical and other prints.

PHILIP MOORE,
Clerk of the District of Maryland.

AIRS OF PALESTINE.

SOMMER's dun cloud, that, slowly rising, holds The sweeping tempest in its rushing folds, Though o'er the ridges of its thundering breast, The King of Terrours lifts his lightning crest; Pleas'd we behold, when those dark folds we find, Fring'd with the golden light, that glows behind. So, when one language bound the human race, On Shinar's plain, round Babel's mighty base, · Gloomily rose the minister of wrath ; Dark was his frown, destructive was his path; . That tower was blasted by the touch of Heaven; That bond was burst—that race asunder driven : Yet, round the Avenger's brow, that frown'd above, Play'd Mercy's beams—the laınbent light of Love. All was not lost, though busy Discord flung Repulsive accents from each jarring tongue; All was not lost; for Love one tie had twin'd, And Mercy dropp'd it, to connect mankind :

One tie, that winds, with soft and sweet control,
Its silken fibres round the yielding soul;
Binds man to man, sooths Passion's wildest strife,
And, through the mazy labyrinths of life,
Supplies a faithful clue, to lead the lone
And weary wanderer to his Father's throne.

That tie is Musick. How supreme her sway! How lovely is the Power that all obey ! Dumb matter trembles at her thrilling shock; Her voice is echo'd by the desert rock; For her, the asp withholds the sting of death, And bares his fangs, but to inhale her breath; The lordly lion leaves his lonely lair, And, crouching, listens when she treads the air; And man, by wilder impulse driven to ill, Is tamed, and led by this Enchantress still. Who ne'er has felt her hand assuasive steal Along his heart—That heart will never feel. 'Tis hers to chain the passions, sooth the soul, To snatch the dagger, and to dash the bowl From Murder's hand; to smooth the couch of Care, Extract the thorns, and scatter roses there ; Of Pain's hot brow, to still the bounding throb, Despair's long sigh, and Grief's convulsive sob.

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