 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
247
LINES ON THE BURNING OF THE ROYAL EXCHANGE.
All hush'd in the moonlight, the city lay sleeping,
Tower, Temple, and Palace, were bathed in her beams;
Only sorrow and guilt were awaking and weeping,
When the watchman's deep cry broke the slumberer's dreams.
Tower, Temple, and Palace, were bathed in her beams;
Only sorrow and guilt were awaking and weeping,
When the watchman's deep cry broke the slumberer's dreams.
“Fire! Fire!” 'tis a sound ever sad to the feeling,
But oh! how terrific, how thrillingly grand,
In the depth of that midnight, when Winter was stealing
Unheard, with his fetters of ice, o'er the land!
But oh! how terrific, how thrillingly grand,
In the depth of that midnight, when Winter was stealing
Unheard, with his fetters of ice, o'er the land!
“Fire! Fire!”—it is raging in fierce exultation,
All reckless and tameless,—your efforts are vain!
Lo! it laughs at your labour in triumph's elation,
And now, with fresh fury, it rises again!
All reckless and tameless,—your efforts are vain!
Lo! it laughs at your labour in triumph's elation,
And now, with fresh fury, it rises again!
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And the roar of the elements meeting in madness—
The crash of vast timbers, that blaze as they fall—
The rushing of thousands, in terror and sadness—
Are sounds that the mightiest heart would appal!
The crash of vast timbers, that blaze as they fall—
The rushing of thousands, in terror and sadness—
Are sounds that the mightiest heart would appal!
Lo! the river, that drank in the moonlight erewhile,
Now beams back the blaze of the flame-spirit's eye,
Flushing fitfully up in the light of his smile,
While he points, in his demon-delight, to the sky!
Now beams back the blaze of the flame-spirit's eye,
Flushing fitfully up in the light of his smile,
While he points, in his demon-delight, to the sky!
All clear and serene in its purity, beaming,
Night's amber-hued jewel floats tranquilly there,
As an icicle cold and transparent in seeming,
Undimm'd by the smoke, and unchang'd by the glare
Night's amber-hued jewel floats tranquilly there,
As an icicle cold and transparent in seeming,
Undimm'd by the smoke, and unchang'd by the glare
Pour on the swift waters!—as well might ye strive
To check with a dewdrop the lightning's fierce play,
For the flames in their reckless resolve seem alive—
And look! the proud tower to their fury gives way!
To check with a dewdrop the lightning's fierce play,
For the flames in their reckless resolve seem alive—
And look! the proud tower to their fury gives way!
They have stol'n where sculptured in marble sublimely
The island kings stood in majestic repose,—
Oh! blasted for ever by ruin untimely—
The wreck of their grandeur the conqueror shows
The island kings stood in majestic repose,—
Oh! blasted for ever by ruin untimely—
The wreck of their grandeur the conqueror shows
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E'en the emblem of Time to their might doth surrender,—
Their mad work is finished invisibly there;
And now, in new triumph and wild blazing splendor,
They rise where the music bells sleep in the air.
Their mad work is finished invisibly there;
And now, in new triumph and wild blazing splendor,
They rise where the music bells sleep in the air.
Hush! hark!—hath a pitying spirit from Heaven
Stol'n down to mourn over the smouldering pile?
Wild, plaintive, and soft, is that melody given,
The throng's deep emotion to soothe and beguile.
Stol'n down to mourn over the smouldering pile?
Wild, plaintive, and soft, is that melody given,
The throng's deep emotion to soothe and beguile.
Ah, no! 'tis the last hallowed chime of those bells,
That will gladden no longer your hearts with their peal;
Even now, as more gaily the loved music swells,
The destroyer upon them doth rapidly steal.
That will gladden no longer your hearts with their peal;
Even now, as more gaily the loved music swells,
The destroyer upon them doth rapidly steal.
And lo! with a crash of strange discord they fall,
And the conqueror, weary of ruin and woe,
Disappears, leaving clouds of dense smoke, like a pall,
O'er the scene where the pride of the city lies low!
And the conqueror, weary of ruin and woe,
Disappears, leaving clouds of dense smoke, like a pall,
O'er the scene where the pride of the city lies low!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |