The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 386, August 22, 1829. Various

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      Its music beareth o'er my widow'd heart

      A tale of vanish'd innocence and love,

      And bliss that screw'd around the ark of life

      Sweet flow'rs of summer hue. It hath the tone,

      The very tone which wrapt my spirit up,

      In silent dreams mid visions. Oft, at eve,

      I heard it wandering thro' the silver air,

      As if some sylph had witch'd the stringed shell

      Of woods and lonely fountains:—and the birds

      That sang in the blue glow of heaven, the trees

      That whisper'd like a timid maiden's lips,

      The bees that kiss'd their bride-flow'rs into sleep,

      All breath'd the spell of that enchanting lay!

      Whence came it now? perchance from yonder dell,

      O'er which the skies, in sunny beauty fix'd,

      Their sapphire mantle hang. Its Eden home

      Is in some beauteous place where faces beam

      In loveliness and joy! To hail the morn,

      The infant pours it from his rosy mouth,

      Ere, o'er the fields, with blissful heart he roams,

      To watch the syren lark, or mark the sun

      Surround with golden light the rainbow clouds.

      That music-lay awak'd within my heart

      Thoughts, that had wept themselves to death, like clouds

      In summer hours.—It brought before mine eyes

      The haunts so often worshipped, the forms

      Revealing heav'n and holiness in vain.

      Alas, sweet lay, the freshness of the heart

      Is wasted, like an unfed stream, away;

      And dreams of Home, by Fancy treasurd up,

      Remain as wrecks around the tomb of Being!

      Thy harps are silent, mighty one!

      Thy melody no more:

      For ocean's mourning dirge alone

      Breaks on thy rocky shore.

      The fisher there his net has spread,

      Thy prophecy to show;

      Nor dreams he that thy doom was read,

      Two thousand years ago.

      On Chebar's banks the captive seer,

      Thy future ruin told:

      Visions of woe, how true and clear,

      With power divine unroll'd!

      The tall ship there no more is riding,

      Of Lebanon's proud cedars made;

      But the wild waves ne'er cease their chiding,

      Where Tyre's past pomp and splendour fade.

      The traveller to thy desert shore

      No cherish'd record found of thee;

      But fragments rude are scatter'd o'er

      Thy dreary land's blank misery.

      The sounds of busy life were hush'd,

      But still the moaning blast,

      That o'er the rocky barrier rush'd,

      Sang wildly as it pass'd:—

      Spirit of Time, thine echoes woke,

      And thus the mighty Genius spoke:—

      "Seek no more, seek no more,

      Splendour past and glories o'er,

      Here bleak ruin ever reigns;

      See him scatter o'er the plains,

      Arches broken, temples strew'd,

      O'er the dreary solitude!

      Long ago the words were spoken,

      Words which never can be broken.

      Where are now thy riches spread?

      Where wilt thou thy commerce spread?

      Thou shalt be sought but found no more!

      Wanderers to thy desert shore

      Former splendours bring thee never,

      Tyre is fallen, fallen forever!"

      Let science weep and droop her head,

      Her favourite champion, Davy's dead!

      The brightest star among the bright,

      Alas! has ceased to shed its light.

      Yet say not darkness reigns alone,

      While "Safety Lamps" are burning on,

      And shedding life that never dies.

      Around the tomb where Davy lies