Yet did I pray, love! that thou mightst not come,
Even that thou mightst be faithless to thy vows,
Rather than meet this peril-Miriam,
Does Javan ask me why? Because I saw my father pine with hungerBecause I never hope to come again.
Too true! this night, this fatal night, if Heaven
Strike not their conquering host, the foe achieves
His tardy victory. Round the shatter'd walls
There is the smother'd hum of preparation.
With stealthy footsteps, and with muffled arms,
Along the trenches, round the lowering engines,
I saw them gathering: men stood whispering men,
As though revealing some portentous secret;
At every sound cried, Hist! and look'd reproachfully
Upon each other. Now and then a light
From some far part of the encircling camp
To him untimely who is fit to die :
The less of this cold world, the more of heaven;
The briefer life, the earlier immortality.
But every moment to the man of guilt
And bloodshed, one like-ah me! like my father
Each instant rescued from the grasp of death,
May be a blessed chosen opportunity
For the everlasting mercy-Think what 't is
For time's minutest period to delay
An infidel's death, a murderer's—
If I were dying, I would have thee go-
Oh! thou inspher'd, unearthly loveliness!
Danger may gather round thee, like the clouds
Round one of heaven's pure stars, thou'lt hold within
Thy course unsullied.
This is worse than all ! Oh! mock not thus with wild extravagant praise
Breaks suddenly out, and then is quench'd as sud- A very weak and most unworthy girl.
The forced unnatural quiet, that pervades
Those myriads of arm'd and sleepless warriors,
Presages earthly tempest; as yon clouds,
*That in their mute and ponderous blackness hang
Over our heads, a tumult in the skies-
The earth and heaven alike are terribly calm.
Alas! alas! give me the food! let's say
Farewell as fondly as a dying man
Should say it to a dying woman!
It shall not be. He, He hath given command,
Javan, one last, one parting word with thee-
There have been times, when I have said light words,
As maidens use, that made thy kind heart bleed;
There have been moments, when I have seen thee
sad,
And I have cruelly sported with thy sadness:
I have been proud, oh! very proud, to hear
Thy fond lips dwell on beauty, when thine eyes
Were on this thin and wasted form of mine.
Forgive me, oh! forgive me, for I deem'd
The hour would surely come, when the fond bride
Might well repay the maiden's waywardness.
Oh! look not thus o'erjoy'd, for if I thought
We e'er could meet again this side the grave,
That when the signs are manifest, we should flee (17) Trust me, I had been charier of my tenderness.
Unto the mountains.*
I knew not that my fond unconscious hand Had been so bold-Oh, Javan! ere the morn
Of all her children, when this night is pass'd, Devoted Salem's darkest, and her last,
"Twill have no power t' offend thee-'t will be cold. Of all her children none is left to her,
Offend me! Miriam, when thou 'rt above Among the Saints, and I in the sinful world, How terrible 't will be if I should forfeit The hope of meeting thee in blessedness.
Forfeit! with faith like thine?
Save those whose house is in the sepulchre.
Yet, guilty city, who shall mourn for thee?
Sball Christian voices wail thy devastation? Look down! look down, avenged Calvary,
Upon thy late yet dreadful expiation.
Oh! long foretold, though slow accomplish'd fate,
"Her house is left unto her desolate ;"
Thou well rebukest me. Proud Cæsar's ploughshare o'er her ruins driven,
Fulfils at length the tardy doom of heaven;
The wrathful vial's drops at length are pour'd
On the rebellious race that crucified their Lord!
To thy Redeemer I commit thee now,
To leave thee here, or take thee to himself.
Farewell, farewell! the life of this sad heart,-
Dearer than life-I look for thee, and lo!
Nought but blind darkness
Save where yon mad city,
As though at peace and in luxurious joy,
Is hanging out her bright and festive lamps.
There have been tears from holier eyes than mine
Pour'd o'er thee, Zion! yea, the Son of Man
This thy devoted hour foresaw and wept.
And I can I refrain from weeping? Yes,
My country, in thy darker destiny
Will I awhile forget mine own distress.
I feel it now, the sad, the coming hour;
The signs are full, and never shall the sun
Shine on the cedar roofs of Salem more;
Her tale of splendour now is told and done:
Her wine-cup of festivity is spilt,
And all is o'er, her grandeur and her guilt.
Oh! fair and favour'd city, where of old
The balmy airs were rich with melody,
That led her pomp beneath the cloudless sky
In vestments flaming with the orient gold;
Her gold is dim, and mute her music's voice;
The Heathen o'er her perish'd pomp rejoice.
How stately then was every palm-deck'd street,
Down which the maidens danced with tinkling feet;
How proud the elders in the lofty gate!
How crowded all her nation's solemn feasts
With white-robed Levites and high-mitred Priests;
How gorgeous all her Temple's sacred state!
Her streets are razed, her maidens sold for slaves,
Her gates thrown down, her elders in their graves;
Her feasts are holden 'mid the Gentile's scorn,
By stealth her Priesthood's holy garments worn;
And where her Temple crown'd the glittering rock,
The wandering shepherd folds his evening flock.
When shall the work, the work of death begin?
When come the avengers of proud Judah's sin?
Aceldama! accursed and guilty ground,
Gird all the city in thy dismal bound,
Her price is paid, and she is sold like thou;
Let every ancient monument and tomb
Enlarge the border of its vaulted gloom,
Their spacious chambers all are wanted now.
But nevermore shall yon lost city need
Those secret places for her future dead;
Streets of Jerusalem-Night. Many Jews meeting.
Saw ye it, father! saw ye what the city
Stands gazing at? As I pass'd through the streets
There were pale women wandering up and down;
And on the house-tops there were haggard faces
Turn'd to the heavens, where'er the ghostly light
Fell on them. Even the prowling plunderers,
That break our houses for suspected food,
Their quick and stealthful footsteps check, and gasp
In wonder. They, that in deep weariness,
Or wounded in the battle of the morn,
Had cast themselves to slumber on the stones,
Lift up their drowsy heads, and languidly
Do shudder at the sight.
What sight? what say'st thou?
The star, the star, the fiery-tressed star,
That all this fatal year hath hung in the heavens
Above us, gleaming like a bloody sword,
Twice hath it moved. Men cried aloud, "A tem
pest!"
And there was blackness, as of thunder clouds:
But yet that angry sign glared fiercely through them,
And the third time, with slow and solemn motion,
"T was shaken and brandish'd.
Timorous boy! thou speak'st As though these things were strange. Why now we sleep
With prodigies ablaze in all the heavens,
And the earth teeming with portentous signs,
As sound as when the moon and constant stars
Beam'd quietly upon the slumbering earth
Their customary fires. Dost thou remember,
At Pentecost, when all the land of Judah
Stood round the Altar, at the dead of night,
A Light broke out, and all the Temple shone
With the meteorous glory? 't was not like
The light of sun or moon, but it was clear
And bright as either, only that it wither'd
Men's faces to a hue like death.
What now? why all things sad and monstrous. The Prophets stand aghast, and vainly seek, Amid the thronging and tumultuous signs Which crowd this wild disastrous night, the intent Of the Eternal. Wonder breaks o'er wonder, As clouds roll o'er each other in the skies; And Terror, wantoning with man's perplexity, No sooner hath infix'd the awed attention
On some strange prodigy, than it straight distracts it To a stranger and more fearful.
Woe! woe! woe! FIRST JEW.
The son of Hananiah? is 't not he?
Art thou a stranger in Jerusalem, That thou rememberest not that fearful man? FOURTH JEW.
Speak! speak! we know not all.
A rude and homely dresser of the vine,
He had come up to the Feast of Tabernacles,
When suddenly a spirit fell upon him,
Evil or good we know not. Ever since
(And now seven years are past since it befell,
Our city then being prosperous and at peace,)
He hath gone wandering through the darkling streets
At midnight under the cold quiet stars;
He hath gone wandering through the crowded market
At noonday under the bright blazing sun,
With that one ominous cry of" Woe, woe, woe!"
Some scoff'd and mock'd him, some would give him
He neither cursed the one, nor thank'd the other. The Sanhedrim bade scourge him, and myself Beheld him lash'd, till the bare bones stood out Through the maim'd flesh, still, still he only cried, Hark? what's there? Woe to the City, till his patience wearied
To the sound of timbrels sweet, (18)
Moving slow our solemn feet,
We have borne thee on the road,
To the virgin's blest abode;
With thy yellow torches gleaming,
And thy scarlet mantle streaming,
And the canopy above
Swaying as we slowly move.
Thou hast left the joyous feast,
And the mirth and wine have ceased;
The angry persecutors. When they freed him,
"T was still the same, the incessant Woe, woe, woe.
But when our siege began, awhile he ceased,
As though his prophecy were fulfill'd; till now
We had not heard his dire and boding voice.
JOSHUA, the Son of Hananiah.
A voice from the East! a voice from the West!
From the four winds a voice against Jerusalem!
A voice against the Temple of the Lord!
A voice against the Bridegrooms and the Brides!
A voice against all people of the land! Woe! woe! woe!
They are the very words, the very voice
Which we have heard so long. And yet, methinks,
There is a mournful triumph in the tone
Ne'er heard before. His eyes, that were of old
Fix'd on the earth, now wander all abroad,
As though the tardy consummation
Afflicted him with wonder-Hark! again.
CHORUS OF MAIDENS.
Now the jocund song is thine,
Bride of David's kingly line!
How thy dove-like bosom trembleth,
And thy shrouded eye resembleth
Violets, when the dews of eve
A moist and tremulous glitter leave
On the bashful sealed lid!
Close within the bride-veil hid,
Motionless thou sit'st, and mute;
Save that at the soft salute
Of each entering maiden friend
Thou dost rise and softly bend.
Hark! a brisker, merrier glee!
The door unfolds, 't is he, 't is he.
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him,
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him.
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting,
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting.
A voice from the East! a voice from the West!
From the four winds a voice against Jerusalem!
A voice against the Temple of the Lord!
A voice against the Bridegrooms and the Brides!
A voice against all people of the land!
Why hearken, then-Upon a sudden
The pavement seem'd to swell beneath my feet,
And the Veil shiver'd, and the pillars rock'd.
And there, within the very Holy of Holies,
There, from behind the winged Cherubim,
Where the Ark stood, a noise, hurried and tumultuous,
Was heard, as when a king with all his host
Doth quit his palace. And anon, a voice,
Or voices, half in grief, half anger, yet
Nor human grief nor anger, even it seem'd
As though the hoarse and rolling thunder spake
With the articulate voice of man, it said,
Woe! woe![Bursts away, followed by Second Jew. And fled.
To the outer wall;
And there he suddenly cried out and sternly,
"A voice against the son of Hananiah!
Woe, woe!" and at the instant, whether struck
By a chance stone from the enemy's engines, down
He sank and died!-
Oh God! and Father of our Fathers,
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND MAIDENS.
Under a happy planet art thou led,
Oh, chosen Virgin! to thy bridal bed.
So put thou off thy soft and bashful sadness,
And wipe away the timid maiden tear,-
Lo! redolent with the Prophet's oil of gladness,
And mark'd by heaven, the Bridegroom Youth is
here.
Hark-hark! an armed tread!
BEN CATHLA.
Ay, ye are met, all met, as in a mart,
T'exchange against each other your dark tales
Of this night's fearful prodigies. I know it,
By the inquisitive and half-suspicious looks
With which ye eye each other, ye do wish
There's some one comes this way- To disbelieve all ye have heard, and yet
Ye dare not. If ye have seen the moon unsphered,
The same!-We had gone forth in quest of food:
And we had enter'd many a house, where men
Were preying upon meagre herbs and skins;
And some were sating upon loathsome things
Unutterable, the ravening hunger. Some,
Whom we had plunder'd oft, laugh'd in their agony
To see us baffled. At her door she met us,
And "We have feasted together heretofore,"
When the horn summons to the morning's war,
From out your drowsy beds-Away! I say.
Simon, thou knowst not the dark signs abroad.
Ay! is 't not fearful and most ominous
That the sun shines not at deep midnight? Mark me,
Ye men with gasping lips and shivering limbs,
Thou mitred priest, and ye misnamed warriors,
If ye infect with your pale aguish fears
Our valiant city, we 'll nor leave you limbs
To shake, nor voices to complain-T" your homes.
SIMON, JOHN.
In truth, good Simon, I am half your proselyte;
Your angels, that do bear such excellent wine,
Might shake a faith more firm than ours.
My soul is jocund. Expectation soars
Before mine eyes, like to a new-fledged eagle,
And stoopeth from her heavens with palms ne'er worn
By brows of Israel. Glory mounts with her,
She said, "most welcome warriors!" and she led us, Her deep seraphic trumpet swelling loud
And bade us sit like dear and honour'd guests,
While she made ready. Some among us wonder'd,
And some spake jeeringly, and thank'd the lady
That she had thus with provident care reserved
The choicest banquet for our scarcest days.
But ever as she busily minister'd,
Quick, sudden sobs of laughter broke from her.
At length the vessel's covering she raised up,
And there it lay-
What lay-Thou 'rt sick and pale.
By earth and heaven, the remnant of a child!
A human child!- -Ay, start! so started we-
Whereat she shriek'd aloud, and clapp'd her hands,
"O! dainty and fastidious appetites!
The mother feasts upon her babe, and strangers
Loathe the repast"-and then-" My beautiful child!"
The treasure of my womb! my bosom's joy!"
And then in her cool madness did she spurn us
Out of her doors.-Oh still-oh still I hear her,
And I shall hear her till my day of death.
Oh, God of Mercies! this was once thy city!
Joy to thee, beautiful and bashful Bride!
Joy! for the thrills of pride and joy become thee;
Thy curse of barrenness is taken from thee,
And thou shalt see the rosy infant sleeping
Upon the snowy fountain of thy breast;
And thou shalt feel how mothers' hearts are blest
By hours of bliss for moments' pain and weeping.
Joy to thee!
Away! what do ye in our midnight streets
Go sleep! go sleep! or we shall have to lash you,
O'er Zion's gladdening towers.
Why, then, to sleep.
This fight by day, and reyel all the night,
Needs some repose-I'll to my bed-Farewell!
Brave John, farewell! and I'll to rest, and dream
Upon the coming honours of to-morrow.
To-morrow! will that morrow dawn upon thee?
I've warn'd them, I have lifted up my voice
As loud as 't were an angel's, and well nigh
Had I betray'd my secret: they but scoff'd,
And ask'd how long I had been a prophetess?
But that injurious John did foully taunt me,
As though I envied my lost sister's bridal.
And when I clung to my dear father's neck,
With the close fondness of a last embrace,
He shook me from him.
But, ah me! how strange!
This moment, and the hurrying streets were full
As at a festival, now all 's so silent
That I might hear the footsteps of a child.
The sound of dissolute mirth hath ceased, the lamps
Are spent, the voice of music broken off.
No watchman's tread comes from the silent wall,
There are nor lights nor voices in the towers.
The hungry have given up the idle search
For food, the gazers on the heavens are gone,
Even fear's at rest-all still as in a sepulchre!
And thou liest sleeping, oh Jerusalem!
A deeper slumber could not fall upon thee
If thou wert desolate of all thy children,
And thy razed streets a dwelling-place for owls.
I do mistake! this is the Wilderness,
The Desert, where winds pass and make no sound,
And not the populous city, the besieged
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