Herein is contained selected works from the volume Hebrew Melodies, which was published in 1815. Thus far, the following poems are included: 'She Walks in Beauty', 'Oh Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom', 'The Harp the Monarch Minstrel Swept', 'My Soul is Dark', 'The Destruction of Sennacherib', and 'Stanzas for Music'.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! Away! we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou--who tell'st me to foget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
The harp the monarch minstrel swept, The king of men, the loved of Heaven, Which music hallow'd while she wept O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! It soften'd men of iron mould, It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold, That felt not, fired not to the tone, Till David's lyre grew mightier than his thrown! It told the triumphs of our King, It wafted glory to our god; It made our gladden'd valleys ring, The cedars bow, the mountains nod; Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode! Since then, though heard on earth no more, Devotion and her daughter Love Still did bursting spirit soar To sounds that seem as from above, In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.
My soul is dark--Oh! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth again: If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain. But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, And break at once or yield to song.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, Whe the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But trough it there roll'd not a breathe of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, As cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: And the tents were all silent, the banner alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
They say that Hope is happiness; But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless; They rose the first--they set the last. And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that Hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory. Alas! it is delusion all; The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.
More Selections
Index
Hours of Idleness
The Giaour
The Prisoner of Chillon
Don Juan
Posthumous Verse