How lightly mounts the Muse's wing,
Whose theme is in the skies—
Like morning larks that sweeter sing
The nearer Heaven they rise,
Tho' love his magic lyre may tune,
Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes,
Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon,
Whose madness in their ode breathes.
How purer far the sacred lute,
Round which Devotion ties
Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit,
And palm that never dies.
Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be.,
Most welcome to the hero's ears,
Alas, his chords of victory
Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.
How far more sweet their numbers run,
Who hymn like Saints above,
No victor but the Eternal One,
No trophies but of Love!
GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,
(AIR.—STEVENSON.)
Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1]
And rejoice; for the day of our freedom is come!
From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale,
Looking motionless down,[3] saw the kings of the earth,
In the presence of God's mighty champion grow pale—
Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth!
Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come!
Bring myrtle and palm—bring the boughs of each tree
That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.[4]
From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone
With a light not their own, thro' the Jordan's deep tide,
Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on[5]—
Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride!
Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
[1] And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, "Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,'! etc.—Neh. viii. 15.