No more their snowy flocks shall shepherds lead By Babel's silver stream and fertile mead; Or peasant girls at summer's eve repair, To wreathe with wilding flowers their flowing hair; Or pour their plaintive ditties to the wave, That rolls its sullen murmurs o'er thy grave. The wandering Arab there no rest shall find, But, starting, listen to the hollow wind That howls, prophetic, through thy ruined halls, And flee in haste from thy accursed walls. Oh Babylon, with wrath encompassed round, For thee no hope, no mercy, shall be found: Thy doom is sealed--e'en to thy ruin clings The awful sentence of the King of kings!
WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING THE INTERESTING MEMOIR COMPOSED BY HER HUSBAND, THE REV. GREVILLE EWING.
Daughter of Scotland! may a stranger twine One cypress wreath around thy honoured urn?-- Yet, when I meditate on faith like thine, I feel my breast with sacred ardour burn; Deep admiration checks the starting tear,-- Such drops would stain a Ewing's holy bier!
Death was to thee a messenger of love; He met thee in the path thy Saviour trod, Bearing this blessed mandate from above, "Come, happy spirit--come away to God! Thy works of piety on earth are o'er,-- Plume thy bright wing to reach the heavenly shore!"
Calm was thy exit from this troubled scene; Pain from thy lips no hasty murmurs wrung; With brow unruffled and with mind serene, Thy Saviour's praise employed thy faltering tongue: And though no kindling raptures marked thy flight, Thy faith unshaken _showed that all was right_!
Those who beheld thee in the burning hour, When fever raged in every throbbing vein, Oft shall recount the parting struggle o'er, The scene on memory's tablets long retain-- Each gracious word, each kindly glance, that told The Christian's love, ere that warm heart was cold!
Thy memory is a pure and holy thing, Embalmed and treasured in the hearts of those Who saw thee, like an angel, ministering The precious balm that softens human woes. Thou didst not hide thy talent in the dust; Anxious that all should own the same high trust.--
Deeply concerned that other realms should share Those blessed promises so dear to thee,-- That messengers of mercy should declare Glad tidings far beyond thy native sea;-- Thy bounteous spirit compassed land and wave To send redemption to the soil-bound slave!