There stands thy goddess robed in war's array,
Supremely glorious, awfully divine!

With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest,
And sculptured ægis to perfection wrought,
And on each heavenly lineament imprest,
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought;
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose,—
All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws.

Mark on the storied frieze, the graceful train,
The holy festival's triumphant throng,
In fair procession to Minerva's fane,

With many a sacred symbol move along,
There every shade of bright existence trace;
The fire of youth, the dignity of age,

The matron's calm austerity of grace,
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage;

The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud mein, Each ray of beauty caught, and mingled in the scene.

MRS. HEMANS.

THERMOPYLÆ.

HEY fell devoted, but undying;

The very gales their names seemed sighing:
The waters murmured of their name;

The woods were peopled with their fame;
The silent pillar, lone and gray,
Claimed kindred with their sacred clay,
Their spirit wrapt the dusky mountain;
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain;
The meanest rill, the mightiest river,
Rolled, mingled with their fame, for ever,
Despite of every yoke she bears,
That land is glory's still, and theirs!
'Tis still a watch-word to the earth;-
When man would do a deed of worth,

He points to Greece, and turns to tread,
So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head;
He looks to her, and rushes on,

Where life is lost, or freedom won.

BYRON.

PALESTINE.

HE rust is on thy armour, Palestine !

The plume is mouldering on thy golden crest; No more upon thy brow the jewels shine; The shroud is folded on thy weary breast;

Yet not the grave itself can give thee rest.

Wild sounds of war and woe around thee sweep! Pale queen, thou liest in a tomb unblest;

The orphans of the sword thy vigil keep;

Strange life is in thee still; thy slumber is not deep!

Oh, to have seen thee in thy grandeur towering;
When inspiration lightened from thy throne;
When from his ivory halls and shades embowering,
The oracle of nations, Solomon,

Saw the swart pilgrims of the torrid zone,

The fur-clad men who dwell beneath the pole;
The bronze-cheeked sons of western worlds unknown;
All come to see his mighty hand unroll

The wonders of the earth, the secrets of the soul.

There was a sterner time—yet in that time

I would have seen thee; when the Assyrian spear Thronged round thy turrets; and the cloud of crime Told, darkening, of the thunders stooping near; When the strange trumpet woke thy midnight ear, And came the son of death, captivity,

Leaving the land, one silent, mighty bier;

While, swept before the Assyrian dragon's eye,

Thy people dragged the chain to toil, and weep, and die.

Nay, in thy deadliest day, Jerusalem,

My spirit would have clung to thee and thine;
And mixed my blood with Kishon's purple stream!
I see the heathen serpent round thee twine
The coiling of the Legion's brazen line

Folding in flame around thy temple tower;
Wine-press of God! harvest of wrath divine!
What groans of millions told thy final hour;
All ages' agony, all nations' chains, thy dower.

Then came the desert wolves, the Saracen,

And wolf-like, tore thy remnants from the grave, Then came the Turk, the tiger from his den,

And still oppression, like the Dead Sea wave, Rolled o'er thee, Israel, of earth's slaves the slave! Thy exile footsteps trod earth's furthest land,

Earth's deepest dungeons heard thy anguish rave;

Still, in her proudest halls, or wildest strand,

Thy once illustrious brow bore scorn's deep graven brand.

But is there no new glory in the sky?

Is not the morn star rising on the cloud?

What turns all nations to thee, heart and eye?
Why o'er thee rings the Arab trumpet proud?

Why are thy vales with Turkish slaughter ploughed? Why on thy hills the thousand beacons gleam?

Is not the summons come, to rend thy shroud,

To bid thy Urim and thy Thummim beam?
Rise, ransomed from thy tomb, lost, loved Jerusalem!

ANON.

THE OLIVE TREE.

HE Palm-the Vine-the Cedar-each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,

And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower

Wafts Grecian images o'er Fancy's eye.

But thou, pale Olive! in thy branches lie

Far deeper spells than prophet grave of old
Might e'er enshrine :—I could not hear thee sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn of that scene,
When in the garden the Redeemer prayed:
When pale stars looked upon his fainting head,
And angels, ministering in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.

MRS. HEMANS.

U

JERUSALEM BEFORE THE SIEGE.

MITUS.

It must be

And yet it moves me, Romans! it confounds
The counsels of my firm philosophy,

That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er,
And barren salt be sown on yon proud city.
As on our olive-crowned hill we stand,
Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters
Distils 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 hill-side

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 palaces,

With cool and verdant gardens interspersed;

There 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.

MILMAN.

JERUSALEM.

ALLEN is thy throne, O Israel!
Silence is o'er thy plains!

Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
On Etham's barren shore !
The fire from heaven that led thee
Now lights thy path no more!

Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem;
Once she was all thine own:

Her love thy fairest heritage,

Her power thy glory's throne.

Till evil came and blighted

Thy long-loved olive-tree,
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than thee.

Then sank the star of Solyma,

Then passed her glory's day,
Like heath that in the wilderness
The light wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,

Where once the mighty trod;
And sunk those guilty towers,
Where Baal reigned as God.