Before the Saviour's view. He saw her fanes
All glittering, numerous as the stars of night,

Her turrets sparkling with reflected day,
And palaces, like mighty bulwarks, crowned

With frowning towers. There rose the gorgeous pile
Built by her harper king, in that bright day

Of song and glory, when her monarch's name

Was dreadful through the East. Still nearer lay
The House of Solomon, and airy domes

Raised by the lavish boy, to win a smile
From that young bride he wooed by Nilus' flood.
It was the hour when worshippers repaired
To evening sacrifice, and from the shrine
Before the sacred portal, clouds arose

Of incense, which the gentle breezes drank,
And, sailing onward, breathed in sweet perfumes
To freshen languid nature-while from trump

Of silver, blown by Levite, and the voice

Of Levite chorus, holy strains arose

Which, swelling up lofty mountains, thrilled

The soul's deep chords, and wrapped the man in God.

Oh! beautiful, that day, was Zion's smile:
But when the Saviour from the city glanced
His eye around the plain, dim phantoms rose
On every spot, and seemed, all sad, to moan
For her who 'mong the multitudes of earth
No more should dwell a queen. Cedron's lone brook
Sighed slowly down its vale. No more the tramp
Of armored kings, with wheeling chariots girt,
Sounded on Millo's plain. The gardens planned

By Solomon, where, faint with bliss, he leaned
In summer eve, on beauty lovelier

Than that which Arab dreams of Paradise,

Were now deserted, dreary, choked with thorns,
And broke their marble founts. From Judah's halls
The sceptre had departed; all their pomp
Was but the sickly glare, which harbingers
In sultry, summer skies, the coming storm.
Then wept the Son of God, and piteous cried-
"Oh Salem, Salem; would that in these arms
I yet might fold thy children, as the bird
Nestles its feeble brood; that I might bear
The storm of fiercer wrath than Sodom knew,
Which, scattering all thy glory mid the dust,

Will leave thy sons, nor tribes, nor home, nor friend.
I would have sheltered thee from that dark hour,
But thou wouldst not. Behold! the Gentiles come!
People and nations whet their swords for war.
The bow is drawn, the warrior's mail resounds,
Steeds far beyond the ships of Sidon neigh,
And strain, to rush upon thee! Wolves will howl
On all the tops of Lebanon, birds unclean
Will scream, when, glittering to the morning light,
The banners of that coming host are seen!

Woe to the mother, then. Woe to the crowd

Of wretched poor, and to the prattling child.

Woe to the warrior, rescued from the sword-
On every hill, in every forest shade,

By brook and desert, lurking pestilence

Will mock his parting flight, his firm joints loose,

And spread his burning couch where wasting sands
Will hide fore'er his bones. Famine will stalk
Through marble halls that bend with massive gold,
All still, all desolate; in the echoing streets,
Grouped in one sad embrace, will sink in death
Her myriad victims. To the monarch's couch
The loathsome leper then will crawl and die,
Undreaded and unheeded. Through the crowds,
Gasping in agony a prayer for death,

Beings unknown will glide, and piercing cry"Woe to the guilty city.' One by one

Must all thy towers fall; while from their walls

The smoke of human blood will dim the sun,

And drench the streets in showers. This House of God

Will sink in flames; and o'er this sacred hill

The victor's plough shall pass, till not one stone

Is left upon another. None will help

Thy children then; for age, and youth, and strength,
And smiling innocence, will sink alike

In one Golgothic mass, never again

To claim relation with the tribes of earth."

D. S., JR.