O'er Judah's land Thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam,
And the sad city lift her crownless head;
And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam,
Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead.
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers,
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers,
And angel-feet the glittering Sion tread
A CALM WINTER'S NIGHT.
How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which Love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow-
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,
So stainless that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam-yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of peace,—all form a scene
Where musing Solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where Silence undisturbed might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.
THE PINE FOREST BY THE SEA.
WE wander'd to the Pine Forest
That skirts the ocean's foam;
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whisp'ring waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep
The smile of heaven lay;
It seem'd as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scatter'd from above the sun
A light of Paradise!
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced,-
And soothed by every azure breath
That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own:
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
Like green waves on the sea;
As still as is the silent deep
The ocean-woods may be.
How calm it was! the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew,
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seem'd from the remotest seat
Of the wide mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced.
A spirit interfused around,
A thrilling silent life;
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature's strife;
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there,
Was one fair form that fill'd with love
The lifeless atmosphere.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough;
Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky
Gulf'd in a world below;
A firmament of purple light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day—
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green woods
The white sun, twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green:
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.
AN uneducated English poet, born at Helpstone, near Peterborough, in 1793. His parents were in the meanest circumstances, and he only obtained some education by his extra work on the farm, and by the benevolence of an exciseman, who gave him lessons. In 1820 he published a volume of poems, which created some attention; and a number of noblemen and gentlemen became interested in the career of the young poet. In 1821 he published another volume of poems. His affairs shortly after became embarrassed, and amid the wreck of his fortunes his mind gave way, and he was placed in a private asylum, where he is still residing.
DAWNINGS OF GENIUS.
In those low paths which poverty sorrounds,
The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow grounds-
That necessary tool of wealth and pride—
While moiled and sweating, by some pasture's side,
Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace
The opening beauties of a daisy's face;
Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes,
The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles rise;
And often bent, as o'er some magic spell,
He'll pause and pick his shapèd stone and shell:
Raptures the while his inward powers inflame,
And joys delight him which he cannot name;
Ideas picture pleasing views to mind,
For which his language can no utterance find;
Increasing beauties, freshening on his sight,
Unfold new charms, and witness more delight;
So while the present please, the past decay,
And in each other, losing, melt away.
Thus pausing wild on all he saunters by,
He feels enraptured, though he knows not why;
And hums and mutters o'er his joys in vain,
And dwells on something which he can't explain.
The bursts of thought with which his soul's perplexed
Are bred one moment, and are gone the next;
Yet still the heart will kindling sparks retain,
And thoughts will rise, and Fancy strive again.
So have I marked the dying ember's light,
When on the hearth it fainted from my sight,
With glimmering glow oft redden up again,
And sparks crack brightening into life in vain;
Still lingering out its kindling hope to rise,
Till faint and fainting, the last twinkle dies.
Dim burns the soul, and throbs the fluttering heart,
Its painful, pleasing feelings to impart;
Till by successless sallies wearied quite,
The memory fails, and Fancy takes her flight:
The wick, confined within its socket, dies,
Born down and smothered in a thousand sighs.
A NATIVE of Coleraine, born 17th August 1793. At the early age of thirteen he left school, and was put to business. After holding different situations for some years, he began business as a bookseller in Belfast, and for many years has been the leading bookseller there. In 1817, Mr M'Comb published his first volume of poetry, "The Dirge of O'Neill." This was followed by "The School of the Sabbath," in 1822. During many succeeding years, his muse produced only occasional pieces, many of which, however, had a wide circulation. In 1849 was published as the fruit of his matured mind, "The Voice of a Year, and other Poems." Fugitive pieces connected with passing events are still appearing, showing the continued vigour of the poet's mind.
HE cometh, he cometh! the Lord passeth by;
The mountains are rending, the tempest is nigh;
The wind is tumultuous, the rocks are o'ercast;
But the Lord of the Prophet is not in the blast.
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