No incense glow'd.—Sweet Music sued in vain
At that seal'd portal.—Eloquence sprang forth,
From the blest teacher's lips, and in strong bands
Led chain'd attention,—yet the affections lay
In their dead trance.—But lowly Prayer knelt down,
Breathing her meek voice into Mercy's ear,
Through His dear name who bought the forfeit soul
With his own blood,—Firm Faith's unearthly glance,
And Hope bright-wing'd, and sainted Charity
Sustain'd the thrilling cadence, while it bore
The sinner to his God.—Then woke the heart,
And from its trembling fountain pour'd the tear
Which Penitence required and humbly sought
That sabbath blessing which it else had lost.—
So Prayer prevail'd, when Music child of Heaven,
And hallow'd Eloquence, like sounding brass,
And tinkling cymbal, smote the dreaming soul
In vain.
BURIAL OF MAZEEN.
THE LAST OF THE ROYAL LINE OF THE MOHEGAN NATION.
Mid the trodden turf is an open grave,
And a funeral train where the wild flowers wave,
For a manly sleeper doth seek his bed
In the narrow house of the sacred dead,
And the soil hath scantily drank of the tear,
For the red-brow'd few are the mourners here.
They have lower'd the prince to his resting spot,
The deep prayer hath swell'd, but they heed it not,
