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Stands conqueror: and how the Roman conquers,
Let Gischala, let fallen Jotapata

Tell, if one living man, one innocent child,
Yet wander o'er their cold and scatter'd ashes.
They slew them, Miriam, the old grey man,
Whose blood scarce tinged their sword-(nay, turn
not from me,

The tears thou sheddest feel as though I wrung them From mine own heart, my life blood's dearest drops)

They slew them, Miriam, at the mother's breast,
The smiling infants;-and the tender maid,
The soft, the loving, and the chaste like thee,
They slew her not till-


Javan, 'tis unkind!

I have enough at home of thoughts like these,
Thoughts horrible, that freeze the blood, and make
A heavier burthen of this weary life.

I hop'd with thee t' have passed a tranquil hour,
A brief, a hurried, yet still tranquil hour!
-But thou art like them all! the miserable
Have only Heaven, where they can rest in peace,
Without being mock'd and taunted with their


Thou know'st it is a lover's wayward joy
To be reproach'd by her he loves, or thus
Thou would'st not speak. But t'was not to provoke
That sweet reproof, which sounds so like to ten-


I would alarm thee, shock thee, but to save.
That old and secret stair, down which thou stealest
At midnight through tall grass and olive trunks,
Which cumber, yet conceal thy difficult path,
It cannot long remain secure and open;
Nearer and closer the stern Roman winds
His trenches; and on every side but this
Soars his imprisoning wall. Yet, yet 'tis time,
And I must bear thee with me, where are met
In Pella the neglected church of Christ.


With thee! to fly with thee! thou mak'st me fear
Lest all the while I have deceived my soul,
Excusing to myself our stolen meetings

By the fond thought, that for my father's life
I labour'd, bearing sustenance from thee,
Which he hath deem'd heaven-sent.


Oh! farewell then The faithless dream, the sweet yet faithless dream, That Miriam loves me!


Love thee! I am here, Here at dead midnight by the fountain's side, Trusting thee, Javan, with a faith as fearless As that which the instinctive infant twines To its mother's bosom-Love thee! when the sounds Of massacre are round me, when the shouts

Of frantic men in battle rack the soul
With their importunate and jarring din,
Javan, I think on thee, and am at peace.
Our famish'd maidens gaze on me, and see
That I am famish'd like themselves, as pale,
With lips as parch'd and eyes as wild, yet I
Sit patient with an enviable smile

On my wan cheeks, for then my spirit feasts
Contented on its pleasing thoughts of thee.
My very prayers are full of thee, I look

To heaven and bless thee; for from thee I learnt
The way by which we reach the eternal mansions.
But thou, injurious Javan! coldly doubtest.
And-Oh! but I have said too much. Oh! scorn not
The immodest maid, whom thou hast vex'd to utter
What yet she scarce dared whisper to herself.

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Oh cease, I pray thee cease!
Javan! I know that all men hate my father;
Javan! I fear that all should hate my father;
And therefore, Javan, must his daughter's love,
Her dutiful, her deep, her fervent love,
Make up to his forlorn and desolate heart
The forfeited affections of his kind.

Is it not written so in our Law? and He
We worship came not to destroy the Law.
Then let men rain their curses, let the storm
Of human hate beat on his rugged trunk,
I will cling to him, starve, die, bear the scoffs
Of men upon my scatter'd bones with him.

Oh, Miriam! what a fatal art hast thou
Of winding thought, word, act, to thy sole purpose;
The enamouring one even now too much enamour'd!
I must admire thee more for so denying,
Than I had dared if thou hadst fondly granted.
Thou dost devote thyself to utterest peril,
And me to deepest anguish; yet even now
Thou art lovelier to me in thy cold severity
Flying me, leaving me without a joy,
Without a hope on earth, without thyself;
Thou art lovelier now than if thy yielding soul
Had smiled on me a passionate consent.
Go; for I see thy parting homeward look,
Go in thy beauty! like a setting star,
The last in all the thick and moonless heavens,
O'er the lone traveller in the trackless desert.
Go! if this dark and miserable earth

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At that foul deed by her fierce children done; A few dim hours of day

The world in darkness lay;


Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless
While thou didst sleep within the tomb,
Consenting to thy doom;

Ere yet the white-rob'd angel shone
Upon the sealed stone.

And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand
With Devastation in thy red right hand,
Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew:
But thou didst haste to meet

Thy mother's coming feet,

And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few.
Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise

Into thy native skies,
Thy human form dissolved on high
In its own radiancy.


King of Kings! and Lord of Lords!
Thus we move, our sad steps timing
To our cymbals' feeblest chiming,
Where thy House its rest accords.
Chas'd and wounded birds are we,
Through the dark air fled to thee;
To the shadow of thy wings,
Lord of Lords! and King of Kings!
Behold, oh Lord! the Heathen tread
The branches of thy fruitful vine,
That its luxurious tendrils spread

O'er all the hills of Palestine.
And now the wild boar comes to waste
Even us, the greenest boughs and last,
That, drinking of thy choicest dew,
On Zion's hill, in beauty grew.

No! by the marvels of thine hand,
Thou wilt save thy chosen land!
By all thine ancient mercies shown,
By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown;
By the Egyptian's car-borne host,
Scatter'd on the Red Sea coast;
By that wide and bloodless slaughter
Underneath the drowning water.

Like us in utter helplessness,
In their last and worst distress-
On the sand and sea-weed lying,
Israel pour'd her doleful sighing;
While before the deep sea flow'd,
And behind fierce Egypt rode-
To their fathers' God they pray'd,
To the Lord of Hosts for aid.

On the margin of the flood

With lifted rod the Prophet stood;
And the summon'd east wind blew,

And aside it sternly throw

The gather'd waves, that took their stand, Like crystal rocks, on either hand,

Or walls of sea-green marble piled
Round some irregular city wild.

Then the light of morning lay
On the wonder-paved way,
Where the treasures of the deep
In their caves of coral sleep.
The profound abysses, where
Was never sound from upper air,
Rang with Israel's chanted words,
King of Kings! and Lord of Lords!

Then with bow and banner glancing,
On exulting Egypt came,
With her chosen horsemen prancing,
And her cars on wheels of flame,

In a rich and boastful ring,
All around her furious king.

But the Lord from out his cloud,

The Lord look'd down upon the proud;
And the host drave heavily
Down the deep bosom of the sea.

With a quick and sudden swell
Prone the liquid ramparts fell;
Over horse, and over car,
Over every man of war,
Over Pharaoh's crown of gold
The loud thundering billows roll'd.
As the level waters spread

Down they sank, they sank like lead,
Down sank without a cry or groan.
And the morning sun, that shone
On myriads of bright-armed men,
Its meridian radiance then

Cast on a wide sea, heaving as of yore,
Against a silent, solitary shore.


To the sound of timbrels sweet,
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 ceast;

And now we set thee down before
The jealously-unclosing door,
That the favour'd youth admits
Where the veiled virgin sits
In the bliss of maiden fear,
Waiting our soft tread to hear;
And the music's brisker din,
At the Bridegroom's entering in,
Entering in a welcome guest
To the chamber of his rest.

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,-'tis he, 'tis 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.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND MAIDENS. Under a happy planet art thou led, Oh, chosen Virgin, to thy bridal bed. So put 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.


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 moment's pain and weeping.



Bereave me not of these delightful dreams
Which charm'd my youth; or mid her gay career
Of hope, or when the faintly-paining tear
Sat sad on memory's cheek! though loftier themes
Await the awaken'd mind, to the high prize
Of wisdom hardly, earn'd with toil and pain,
Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain

Cast friendless, where unheard some suff'rer cries Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long,

'Twere not a crime, should we awhile delay Amid the sunny field; and happier they, Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song To cheer their path, till they forget to weep; And the tired sense is hush'd and sinks to sleep.

Languid and sad, and slow, from day to day

I journey on, yet pensive turn to view, Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue, The streams and vales and hills that steal away. So fares it with the children of the earth.

For when life's goodly prospect opens round, Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth. But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles;

And soon a longing look like me they cast Back o'er the pleasing prospect of the past. Yet fancy points, where still far onward smiles Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends, Till cheerless on their path the night descends.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,

Much musing on the track of terror past, When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast, Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide That laves the pebbled shores; and now the beam Of evening smiles on the grey battlement, And yon forsaken tow'r that time has rent: The lifted oar far off with silver gleam Is touch'd, and the hush'd billows seem to sleep. Sooth'd by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast A kindred stillness steals, and bids her rest; Whilst sad airs stilly sigh along the deep, Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn, expire.


Ye holy tow'rs that shade the wave-worn steep, Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, Though hurrying silent by, relentless time Assail you, and the wintry whirlwind's sweep. For, far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls, Here Charity has fix'd her chosen seat;

Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat

With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour

Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tow'r,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry,
Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the grave.


As slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream,

Wensbeck! the mossy scatter'd rocks among, In fancy's ear still making plaintive song To the dark woods above, that waving seem To bend o'er some enchanted spot, remov'd

From life's vain scenes; I listen to the wind, And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, reclin'd O'er the forsaken tomb of one she lov'd. Fair scenes, ye lend a pleasure long unknown To him who passes weary on his way.

The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay, Shall thank you: and whene'er of pleasures flowa His heart some long lost image would renew, Delightful haunts! he will remember you.


O Tweed! a stranger that with wandering feet O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile (If so his weary thoughts he may beguile) Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet. The waving branches that romantic bend

O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow. The murmurs of thy wandering wave below Seem to his ear the pity of a friend. Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,

When spring returns in all her wonted pride, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more; Yet here with pensive peace could I abide, Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar, To muse upon thy banks at even tide.

Evening, as slow thy placid shades descend,

Veiling with gentlest touch the landscape still. The lonely battlement, and farthest hill And wood-I think of those that have no friend: Who now perhaps by melancholy led, [flaunts, From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure Retiring, wander mid thy lonely haunts Unseen, and mark the tints that o'er thy bed Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye

Presenting fairy vales, where the tir'd mind Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, [wh Nor hear the hourly moans of misery. Ah! beauteous views, that Hope's fair gleams the Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!


Clydsdale, as thy romantic vales I leave,
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
Where musing Fancy seems to linger still,
Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve
That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
I may return your varied views to mark
Of rocks amid the sunshine tow'ring dark;
Of rivers winding wild, and mountains hoar,
Or castle gleaming on the distant steep!

Yet still your brightest images shall smile
To charm the lingering stranger, and beguile
His way; whilst I the poor remembrance keep
Like those, that muse on some sweet vision flown,
To chear me wandering on my way alone.


Itchin, when I behold thy banks again,

Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast On which the self-same tints still seem to rest; Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain? Is it, that many a summer's day has past

Since in life's morn I carol'd on thy side? Is it, that oft since then my heart has sigh'd, As youth's and hope's delusive gleams flew fast? Is it, that those who circled on thy shore, Companions of my youth, now meet no more? Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend

Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, From whom in happier hours we wept to part.


On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowy heads, and at their feet
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;

And while the distant murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
of the friends he lov'd most dear;
Of social scenes from which he wept to part.
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall;
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide.


The orient beam illumes the parting oar,
From yonder azure track emerging white
The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,
And the blue wave comes ripling to the shore.
Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies.

Yet, mid the beauties of the morn unmov'd, Like one, for ever torn from all he lov'd, Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes, Where ev'ry pleasure seem'd ere while to dwell:

Yet boots it not to think or to complain,
Musing sad ditties to the reckless main.
To dreams like these adieu! the pealing bell
Speaks of the hour that stays not, and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the blushes of the bending vine) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling


We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted; varying as we go,

Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire; Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow. Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair,

Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.


How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal!

As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, And now along the white and level tide They fling their melancholy music wide, Bidding me many a tender thought recall Of summer days, and those delightful years,

When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime First wak'd my wondering childhood into tears; But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more.

If chance some pensive stranger hither led,
His bosom glowing from romantic views,
The gorgeous palace or proud landscape's hues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed?
"Tis poor Matilda!-to the cloister'd scene

A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came
To shed her secret tears, and quench the flame
Of hopeless love! yet was her look serene
As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle.

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spake of a departed friend: And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest, Where husht to long repose the wretched rest.


O Time, who know'st a lenient hand to lay,
Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away:
On thee I rest my only hopes at last;

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear,
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on many a sorrow past,
And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile.
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunshine of the transient show'r,
Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while.

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