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(Excerpt)
TITUS, on the Mount of Olives; Evening.
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. | 5 |
| 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! | 10 |
| 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 palaces, | |
| With cool and verdant gardens interspersed; | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| 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! | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| My country, in thy darker destiny | |
| Will I awhile forget mine own distress. | |
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| 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; | 40 |
| 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. | |
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| O fair and favored city, where of old | |
| The balmy airs were rich with melody, | 45 |
| 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. | |
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| How stately then was every palm-decked street, | 50 |
| 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! | 55 |
| 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, | 60 |
| The wandering shepherd folds his evening flock. | |
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| 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, | 65 |
| 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. | |
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| But nevermore shall yon lost city need | 70 |
| 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. | 75 |
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| 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, | 80 |
| “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! | 85 |
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