That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er,
And barren salt be sown on yon proud city.
As on our olive-crownéd hill we stand,
Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters
Distills from stone to stone with gentle motion,
As through a valley sacred to sweet peace,
How boldly doth it front us! how majestically!
Like a luxurious vineyard, the hillside
Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line,
Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer
To the blue heavens. Here bright and sumptuous
With cool and verdant gardens interspersed;
Here towers of war that frown in massy strength,
While over all hangs the rich purple eve,
As conscious of its being her last farewell
Of light and glory to that fated city.
And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke
Are melted into air, behold the Temple,
In undisturbed and lone serenity
Finding itself a solemn sanctuary
In the profound of heaven! It stands before us
A mount of snow fretted with golden pinnacles!
The very sun, as though he worshipped there,
Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs;
And down the long and branching porticos,
On every flowery-sculptured capital,
Glitters the homage of his parting beams.
By Hercules! the sight might almost win
The offended majesty of Rome to mercy.
JAVAN, at the Fountain of Siloe.
There have been tears from holier eyes than mine. Poured 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 splendor now is told and done:
Her wine-cup of festivity is spilt,
And all is o'er, her grandeur and her guilt.
O fair and favored 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 perished pomp rejoice.
How stately then was every palm-decked 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 crowned 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;
Of all her children, when this night is passed,
Devoted Salem's darkest, and her last,
Of all her children none is left to her,
Save those whose house is in the sepulchre.
Yet, guilty city, who shall mourn for thee?
Shall Christian voices wail thy devastation?
Look down! look down, avenged Calvary,
Upon thy late yet dreaded expiation.
O, long-foretold, though slow-accomplished fate,
"Her house is left unto her desolate";
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 poured
On the rebellious race that crucified their Lord!
Henry Hart Milman.
ODE TO JERUSALEM.
JERUSALEM, Jerusalem !
If any love thee not, on them
May all thy judgments fall;
For every hope that crowns our earth,
All birth-gifts of her heavenly birth,
To thee she owes them all!
Deep was thy guilt, and deep thy woe; The brand of Cain upon thy brow,
Each shore has felt thy tread : No altar now is thine; no priest; Upon thy hearth no paschal feast: The paschal moon is dead.
When from their height the nations fall,
The kind grave o'er them strews her pall;
They die as mortals die:
But He who looked thee in the face
Stamped there that look no years erase,
His own on Calvary.
Awe-struck on thee men gaze, and yet
Confess thy greatness, own our debt,
And trembling still revere
The royal family of man,
Supporting thus its blight and ban
With constancy austere.
Those sciences by us so prized
The sternness of thy strength despised,
Devices light and vain
Of men who lack the might to live
In that repose contemplative
Which Asian souls maintain.
By thee the Book of Life was writ;
And, wander where it may, with it
Thy soul abroad is sent:
Wherever towers a Christian church,
Palace of earth, Heaven's sacred porch,
It is thy monument.
Thy minstrel songs, like sounds wind-borne
From harps on Babel boughs forlorn,
O'er every clime have swept;
And Christian mothers yet grow pale
With echoes faint of Rachel's wail;
Our maids with Ruth have wept.
Thou bind'st the present with the past,
The prime of ages with the last;
The golden chain art thou,
On which alone all fates are hung
Of nations springing or upsprung,
Earthward once more to bow.
Across the world's tumultuous gate
Thou fling'st thy shadow's giant weight;
The mightiest birth of Time;
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