Where hearts were lifted up
From earth’s low grovelling thought.
And wrapt in pious zeal.
Heaven's promised blessings sought.
Oh! all is vanished now—
No chant is heard to swell;
'Midst yon deserted wood
Peals now no vesper bell.
The long grass waves above
Christ's servants' humble grave;
While roars the storm of night
O'er ocean's darkened wave.
So must all earthly things
Yield to Time's withering hand;
The best, the brightest fade
Unto the shadowy land.
So must earth's children pass—
Dust become dust again—
As, swept by autumn winds,
Leaves thickly strew the plain.
Yet look beyond the gloom
That shrouds the grave in night!
Eternity is there—
A glorious land of light!
And Hope’s angelic form
The radiant pathway shows
Which leads to endless bliss,
From the tomb’s dark repose!
There is something soothing, though sad, in these lines; and certainly they call up quite a picture before the eyes of a person of the least imagination. One can fancy one sees the grey ruins—the gloomy wood—the "mossy stones," and hears the night-breeze sighing around, and the restless murmur of the waves.
This song, from a lyrical drama of Boye's, entitled "Elisa; or, Friendship and Love," may be acceptable to English readers on account of its subject—a battle in the Holy Land by the Crusaders under Richard Cœur de Lion:
With gory steps and startling yell.
The desert's tiger—known so well—
'Midst the good shepherd's fold
Seeks for his prey—intent on blood:
But ne’er in strife hath he withstood
Britannia’s Lion bold.
With courage high, and sword in hand,
By Lebanon his warriors stand,
Beneath the moon's pale rays.
The Cross before the Crescent flies!
The moon is shrouded in the skies,
Not on such flight to gaze.
King Richard marks the havoc made,
And hastens from the forest's shade
With Britain’s squadrons brave;
For battle ever did be long—
His mail-clad breast, his spear, were strong
As rocks that stem the wave.
Plumes floated o'er his helmet high.
Like lightning glanced his fiery eye,
As proudly on he rode.
His wrath, in its tempestuous might
Was like the angry storms of night
Burst from their dark abode.
'Midst clash of arms, and trumpet’s din—
Where fought the haughty Saladin—
Far o'er the battle-field
A voice was heard, like thunder loud,
On! soldiers—of your cause be proud.
The Cross must never yield."
