Khaled sings the praises of his mistress,
And, because I've none, he pities me: What care I if he should have a thousand
Fairer than the morning? I have thee.
He will find his passion growing cooler
Should her glance on other suitors fall;
Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling,
Fail to answer at thy master's call.
By-and-by some snow-white Nedjid stallion
Shall to thee his spring-time ardour bring;
And a foal, the fairest of the Desert,
To thy milky dress shall crouch and cling.
Then, when Khaled shows to me his children,
I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine;
Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me,
With thy glossy neck laid close to mine.
Oн, trim and gay was the gallant craft,
A flower at her mainmast head;
And fair she looked both fore and aft,
As o'er the bar she sped!
Her sails were white to the morning ray,
And shimmered with magic sheen ;
Oh, where is the wind would bar her way,—
Our nimble "Ocean Queen?"
All safe she's touched the storied land
That yields the spice and the pearl ;
The captain has gems for his good wife's hand,
And silken robes for his girl;
The mate has chosen the brightest hues
To deck his promised bride;
And the cabin-boy wears his heart dues
For safety close at his side.
So near to home, they can see the lights
Like stars o'er the glimmering town;
Busy are all "putting things to rights,"
But, oh, that the wind were down.
The sails are furled; for the rocky shore
The captain knows full well:
To venture a stitch of canvas more,
Might end as none dare tell.
There's a sudden gale! ah, it dashes
The ship near the cliffs they knew ;
They can see by the lightning-flashes
A life-boat labouring through.
Nobly she strains amid the foam;
But they see not morning-tide;
Only one gift of all comes home,
On the cabin-boy's cold side.
THE wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire ;
The thundering surf of ocean beats on the rocks of Tyre—
Beats on the fallen columns, and round the headland roars,
And hurls its foaming volume along the hollow shores,
And calls with hungry clamour, that speaks its long desire:
"Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?"
Within her cunning harbour, choked with invading sand,
No galleys bring their freightage, the spoils of every land,
And like a prostrate forest, when autumn gales have blown,
Her colonnades of granite lie shattered and o'erthrown ;
And from the reefs the pharos no longer flings its fire
To beacon home from Tarshish the lordly ships of Tyre.
Where is thy rod of empire, once mighty on the waves—
Thou that thyself exalted, till kings became thy slaves?
Thou that didst speak to nations, and saw thy will obeyed—
Whose favour made them joyful, whose anger sore afraid—
Who laid'st thy deep foundations, and thought them strong and sure,
And boasted midst the waters: shall I not aye endure ?
Where is the wealth of ages that heaped thy princely mart?
The pomp of purple trappings; the gems of Syrian art;
The silken goats of Kedar; Saba's spicy store;
The tributes of the islands thy squadrons homeward bore,
When thy gates triumphant they entered from the sea
With sound of horn and sackbut, of harp and psaltery?
Howl, howl, ye ships of Tarshish! the glory is laid waste : There is no habitation; the mansions are defaced.
No mariners of Sidon unfurl your mighty sails;
No workmen fell the fir-trees that grow in Shenir's vales,
And Bashan's oaks that boasted a thousand years of sun,
Or hew the masts of cedar on frosty Lebanon.
Rise, thou forgotten harlot : take up thy harp and sing :
Call the rebellious islands to own their ancient king :
Bare to the spray thy bosom, and with thy hair unbound,
Sit on the piles of ruin, thou throneless and discrowned!
There mix thy voice of wailing with the thunders of the sea,
And sing thy songs of sorrow, that thou remembered be!
Though silent and forgotten, yet Nature still laments
The pomp and power departed, the lost magnificence:
The hills were proud to see thee, and they are sadder now;
The sea was proud to bear thee, and wears a troubled brow,
And evermore the surges chant forth their vain desire :
"Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?"
THE old church standing on the hill,
Within a stone's throw of the mill,
Beside an ancient yew,
Is still to youthful memory dear,
Reminding me of joys grown sere
And bliss that once I knew.
A rural pile of rustic form,
For centuries the wind and storm
Have blown on it in vain,-
Stone buttress'd and with oaken roof,
The dear old church is tempest proof,
And still a holy fane.
Two tinkling bells on Sundays rung,
And one was crack'd-but still it hung,
And echoed every week
Across the path and through the woods,
And woke the sylvan solitudes
True happiness to seek.
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