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LET US DEPART.

It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previously to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, "Let us depart hence."

NIGHT hung on Salem's towers,
And a brooding hush profound

Lay where the Roman eagle shone,
High o'er the tents around,

The tents that rose by thousands,

In the moonlight glimmering pale;

Like white waves of a frozen sea,

Filling an Alpine vale.

And the Temple's massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,

In

peace, as if the Holy One

Yet watch'd his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard

In that old fane's deepest heart,

As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a dread voice rais'd the cry,

"Let us depart!"

Within the fated city

E'en then fierce discord raved,

Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword It's vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare

Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told

Of the bloody vintage nigh.

Though the wild red spears

and arrows

Of many a meteor host,

Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard
In the Temple's deepest heart,

As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a voice cried mournfully,

"Let us depart!"

But within the fated city

There was revelry that night;

The wine-cup and the timbrel note,

And the blaze of banquet light.

The footsteps of the dancer

Went bounding through the hall,

And the music of the dulcimer

Summon'd to festival.

While the clash of brother weapons

Made lightning in the air,

And the dying at the palace gates Lay down in their despair.

And that fearful sound was heard

At the Temple's thrilling heart,

As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a dread voice rais'd the cry,

"Let us depart!”

ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING

THE CROSS.

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.*

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky,
Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe,
And by the weight of mortal agony

Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow,
My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain
Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.

I look'd once more, and, as the virtue shed
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray
Of victory from thy mien ! and round thy head,
The halo, melting spirit-like away,

Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born,

To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.

This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harber

ton, Merrion Square, Dublin.

P

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