Soldiers of God! whose manly hearts beat high,
With valorous zeal, and ardent piety;
Who burn, your Prophet's name abroad to spread,
And deal Heav'n's vengeance on th' unfaithful head;
Soldiers of God, with dauntless souls advance,
Smile at the sabre, and defy the lance!
'Tis yours, if, seam'd with many a hallowed scar,
Stern Azrael snatch you from the grasp of War,
O'er Sirat's bridge, with lightning-speed, to fly,
And spring at once to seven- -fold ecstacy.
Yes, it is yours 'mid argent fields to stray,
Space without bound, and everlasting day;
Gardens as Eden fair, where love shall strew
Fresh flow'rs, fresh sweets, that Eden never knew:
For Beauty, blooming in eternal charms,
Wooes warrior Valour to her virgin arms:
And, crown'd with thornless roses, young Desire,
Feeds Rapture's flame with never-dying fire.
There, while your vermeil wounds atone each crime,
And add new grace to Manhood's goodly prime,
There, thro' green meads unwearied shall ye rove,
Breathe the still freshness of the twilight grove,
Or by some streamlet's palmy marge recline,
And drain, uncheck'd, rich juices of the vine,
Till o'er each sense delicious languor creep,
More soft, more soothing, than the dews of Sleep.
Such is your lot, if Honour build your tomb;
Not so if coward Baseness seal your doom.
What, 'mid yon barren wilds, though whirlwinds bring
Thirst and Despair upon their sanded wing;
Yet heav'nly are those wilds to Vaults, where Pain
And scorpion Torments hold eternal reign.
There, wrapt in fires, that ask no feeding oil,
With fiercest heat your madd'ning brain shall boil,
Till, parch'd and black, your flesh, by flames embraced,
Shrivel, like palm-leaves on the desert waste.
Nor think, one drop from rank and stagnant pool,
One smallest drop, your burning tongues shall cool;
Worlds should not buy it; but one sulph'rous wave,
Unfathom'd flood, your writhing limbs shall lave.
Then on to fight, and Allah nerve your hands!
And lo! e'en now, methinks, Angelic bands,
Hang o'er our foes, and from the car of flame,
Launch the red bolt, the forked lightnings aim.
Nor shrink! for know, to each the Eternal Mind,
Excluding Chance, his death-day hath assign'd;
Peace could not shield from its predestined power,
War's thousand perils cannot haste its hour-
Then on to fight! and be the battle-word,
Woe to the Proud!-the Koran or the Sword!
ROLLESTON-Oxford Prize Poem.
How lovely in the arch of Heaven,
Appears yon sinking orb of light;
As darting through the clouds of even,
It gilds the rising shades of night:
Yet brighter, fairer, shines the tear
That trickles o'er misfortune's bier!
Sweet is the murmur of the gale
That whispers through the summer grove;
Soft is the tone of friendship's tale,
And softer still the voice of love:
Yet softer far the tears that flow
To mourn to soothe-another's woe.
Richer than richest diadem
That glitters on the monarch's brow;
Purer than Ocean's purest gem,
Or all that wealth or heart can show,
The drop that swells in pity's eye,
The pearl of sensibility!
Is there a spark of earthly mould
Fraught with one ray of heavenly fire?
Does man one trait of virtue hold
That even angels must admire?
That spark is pity's radiant glow;
That trait; the tear for other's woe.
Let false philosophy decry
The noblest feeling of the mind;
Let wretched sophists madly try
To prove a pleasure more refined:
They only strive in vain to steal,
The tenderness they cannot feel.
To sink in nature's last decay
Without a friend to mourn the fallTo mark its embers die away,
Deplored by none-unwept by all:This, this, is sorrow's deadliest curse; Nor hate, nor hell can find a worse! Take wealth-I know its fleeting worth ; Take honour, it will pass away; Take power-I scorn the bounded earth; Take pomp-its trappings soon decay; But spare me, grant me pity's tear,
my woe-and mourn my bier!
(FROM THE GERMAN OF LAVATER.)
He sleeps, the hour of mortal pain
And warrior pride alike are past;
His blood is mingling with the rain,
His cheeks are withering in the blast.
This morn there was a bright hue there
The glow of courage stern and high;
The steel has drained its current clear,
The storm has bleached its gallant dye.
This morn these icy hands were warm,
That lid half shewing the glazed ball
Was life-thou chill and clayey form
Is this the one we loved? this all?
Woman, away! and weep no more-
Can the dead give you love for love?
Can the grave hear? his course was o'er
The spirit wing'd its way above!
Wilt thou for dust and ashes weep ?
Away! thy lover lies not here :-
Look to yon heaven,-if love is deep
On earth-'tis tenfold deeper there!
Lately sent to a descendant of the Martyred Bishop Hooper, with a seal, upon which was engraved the Bishop's crest-a lamb in a burning thicket, and the motto "Per ignes ad cœlum."
'Tis a lovelier crest than the blood-stained blade,
Or the hand stretched out to slay;
Than the oak-turned wreath, or the laurel braid,
Or the beast or the bird of prey;
It was proved by deeds more lofty far,
Than the shields of war and victory are!
'Twas nobly done to fear not kings,
To dare their feeble ire;
To smile at all terrestrial stings,
The rack, the scourge, the fire.
Now to a cold damp dungeon driven,
Then rapt in thought on things above,
Gazing upon a Saviour's love,
Pass through the flames to heaven
Say aged Warrior, when thy breath
Was struggling with the grasp of death,
When every tortured nerve was rending,
And death with life
In bitter strife
And agony contending.
Wert thou not borne in soul away,
Far from the weak consuming clay?
And o'er thy calm unruffled soul
Did not celestial visions roll?
The Martyr's stake is strewn with flowers,
And earthly and infernal powers
May try their little force in vain
To plant a thorn, or cause a pain!
'Tis true, we are not call'd like thee
To dungeon, cells, and martyry ;
But yet the spirit is not dead
Through whom the saints of Jesus bled,
For though 'tis bound with many a chain,
It would resist to blood again :
And now perhaps a surer snare,
For spirits that might even dare
The stake, and all the terrors there;
The deep laid sophism of the school,
The curling lip of ridicule,
And taunt of sceptics bear :
Yet rapt in thought on things above,
Gazing upon a Saviour's love,
We still may firm endure;
Though smiles or frowns contend the way,
Despise, defy them all, and say,
"Your worst, my hold is sure."
Hark! through the desert wilds, what awful voice
Swells on the gale, and bids the world rejoice?
What Prophet form in holy raptures led,
The gray mists hov'ring o'er his sacred head,
Prepares on earth Messiah's destin'd way,
And hastes the mighty Messenger of Day?
Lo! echoing skies resound his gladsome strain,
"Messiah comes! ye rugged paths be plain;
The Shiloh comes! ye tow'ring cedars bend,
Swell forth, ye valleys, and, ye rocks, descend;
The wither'd branch let balmy fruits adorn,
And clust'ring roses 'twine the leafless thorn;
Burst forth, ye vocal groves, your joy to tell-
The God of Peace redeems his Israel."
Roused at the solemn call, from all her shores
Her eager tribes, behold, Judæa pours!
Tho' scarce the morn asserts her bashful sway,
And doubtful Darkness still contends with day,
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