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 | Airs of Palestine, and other poems |  |
174
[XII. Not with a conqueror's song]
[_]
Written for the First Fair and Exhibition of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanics' Association, September 20th, 1837.
Not with a conqueror's song
Thy courts, O God, we throng,
For battles gained;
No cannon's sulphurous throat,
No trumpet, gives its note,
No banners o'er us float,
With fresh blood stained.
Thy courts, O God, we throng,
For battles gained;
No cannon's sulphurous throat,
No trumpet, gives its note,
No banners o'er us float,
With fresh blood stained.
Over no captive kings,
Our eagle spreads her wings,
Or whets her beak;
Nor, o'er the battle-plain,
Where death-shot fell, like rain,
Where lie in gore the slain,
Comes her shrill shriek.
Our eagle spreads her wings,
Or whets her beak;
Nor, o'er the battle-plain,
Where death-shot fell, like rain,
Where lie in gore the slain,
Comes her shrill shriek.
For Art, which thou hast given,
The tribute due to Heaven
We come to pay;
Art, that, to deck her halls,
On air and vapor calls,
On winds and water-falls,
And all obey.
The tribute due to Heaven
We come to pay;
Art, that, to deck her halls,
On air and vapor calls,
On winds and water-falls,
And all obey.
175
Art, that, from shore to shore,
Moves, without sail or oar,
'Gainst winds and tides;
Or, high o'er earth and seas,
Sits in her car at ease,
And heavenward, on the breeze,
Triumphant rides.
Moves, without sail or oar,
'Gainst winds and tides;
Or, high o'er earth and seas,
Sits in her car at ease,
And heavenward, on the breeze,
Triumphant rides.
Art, that, through mountain bars,
Breaks, that her horseless cars
Self-moved may go;
And, without looking back,
Rolls, on her iron track,
Where the white cataract
Thunders below.
Breaks, that her horseless cars
Self-moved may go;
And, without looking back,
Rolls, on her iron track,
Where the white cataract
Thunders below.
Art, that on spool or reel,
Winds the smooth silk or steel
Spun by her hand,
Then, with her touch of fire,
Draws, from the chord or wire,
Tones that an angel quire
Well might demand.
Winds the smooth silk or steel
Spun by her hand,
Then, with her touch of fire,
Draws, from the chord or wire,
Tones that an angel quire
Well might demand.
Art, that to thee, Most High!
Gladly doth sanctify
Her works and powers;
Lord, ere our tongues are still,
Our hands forget their skill,
To thy most holy will
Devote we ours.
Gladly doth sanctify
Her works and powers;
Lord, ere our tongues are still,
Our hands forget their skill,
To thy most holy will
Devote we ours.
| Airs of Palestine, and other poems | |