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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
AWAKE! behold! within the mountain zone | |
| That, circling, girds her stern and desert throne, | |
| Immortal Salem sits, famed Zion’s queen, | |
| Stretching her hands, and weeping o’er the scene. | |
| Immortal?—yes, though ills have laid her low, | 5 |
| Patient in ruin, deathless in her woe!— | |
| And do we gaze, our weary wanderings past, | |
| On Sheba’s envy, David’s pride at last? | |
| The city prophets blessed, and kings revered, | |
| The saintly loved, the barbarous nations feared? | 10 |
| What lips have kissed these stones! what holy sighs | |
| And burning prayers have mounted to those skies, | |
| As zealous pilgrims, kneeling on the sod, | |
| Have hailed the towers so favored once by God! | |
| Methinks we see those travellers from the West, | 15 |
| With weary limb, and soiled and tattered vest, | |
| Just as they gain the last hill’s stony brow, | |
| And glorious Salem bursts upon them now. | |
| The aged man whom peril, naught could daunt, | |
| With eager step still presses to the front, | 20 |
| Throws back his locks, and spreads his hands on high, | |
| Light long-unknown rekindling in his eye, | |
| And blesses Heaven ’t is his that scene to view, | |
| Ere his bones rest beneath the funeral yew. | |
| The maiden, taught from earliest hour to deem | 25 |
| That city holy as a seraph’s dream, | |
| Half veils her face in awe, and, bending meek, | |
| Vents in deep sobs all, all she may not speak. | |
| E’en the small child, that ran beside his sire, | |
| Hath caught from those around the hallowed fire, | 30 |
| Drops on his knees with calmed and solemn air, | |
| And lisps from cherub mouth the simple prayer, | |
| Raises his eyes, each orb a sapphire gem, | |
| And folds his hands, and cries,—“Jerusalem!” * * * * * | |
| Where through the world shall traveller hope to tread | 35 |
| Soil blessed as this, though beauty long hath fled? | |
| With every scene we see is linked a spell, | |
| And every rock we climb a tale can tell. | |
| The ground is holy,—sainted memories rise,— | |
| Cities decay, but naught of spirit dies. * * * * * | 40 |
| Salem! since David stormed her craggy height, | |
| And dwelt where scoffed the vaunting Jebusite, | |
| What stern, what varied fortunes has she known, | |
| Now conquering nations, now herself o’erthrown! | |
| To-day her Temple glitters wide and far, | 45 |
| Shining in glory like a new-born star; | |
| Tyre gives her arts, and Ophir sends her gold, | |
| And monarchs burn at all their eyes behold. | |
| Chaldæa comes,—she darkens Salem’s fame, | |
| Her walls are stormed, her Temple sinks in flame, | 50 |
| And distant far, where Babel’s waters sweep, | |
| Her prophets pine, her captive children weep. | |
| Woe’s midnight past, again dawn freedom’s hours, | |
| And Salem smiles, the new-built Temple towers; | |
| Once more the caravan from Yemen comes, | 55 |
| The altar burns, and busy commerce hums; | |
| Once more his lion front stern Judah shows, | |
| And heroes rise to brave their country’s foes. | |
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| But lo! o’er western hills that gathering cloud, | |
| Where muttering thunder peals more loud and loud, | 60 |
| And forky lightning glitters down the sky,— | |
| ’T is the dread flash of Rome’s avenging eye! | |
| The Titan stalks,—beneath his coming tread, | |
| Towns bow in dust, and Syria quakes with dread; | |
| Where’er he moves, the oldest empires fall, | 65 |
| And Rome, wide-conquering Rome, seems lord of all. | |
| Gihon’s long hill presents a ridge of spears, | |
| And filled with bucklers Kedron’s vale appears; | |
| While north and south the bristling troops advance, | |
| And bear war’s engines on, and shake the lance. | 70 |
| Girt on all sides, doomed Salem sees her grave; | |
| Her cup of woe is full, and naught can save. | |
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| O direst fruit of crime and hate and rage; | |
| O bloodiest leaf in History’s warning page! | |
| Was it too little Rome besieged her wall, | 75 |
| But Salem’s sons by Salem’s sons must fall? | |
| See! Hebrew chiefs above yon mangled heap, | |
| Their kindred slain, exult when all should weep; | |
| In civil strife true valor ceased to glow, | |
| ’T was who should crush his fellow, not the foe. * * * * * | 80 |
| O Titus! Titus! “darling of mankind,” | |
| That saw his virtues, to his errors blind, | |
| Extolled his feeling heart, his justice praised, | |
| And to his honor busts and arches raised; | |
| But Salem’s name in blood must written be, | 85 |
| The leprous spot that blasts his memory! | |
| What though he rears his countless captives high, | |
| To crosses nailed, that friends may see them die, | |
| The Hebrews shed no tears, for woe has worn | |
| Their senses dull, and more may scarce be borne: | 90 |
| Pangs, like old wounds, oft lull though will not heal, | |
| Excess of feeling makes us cease to feel. | |
| Some fight despairing, some in caverns hide, | |
| These mope in madness, and their God deride; | |
| While others full of zeal, in frenzy strong, | 95 |
| Still call on Heaven to avenge their country’s wrong, | |
| And half expect, down stooping from above, | |
| Messiah’s form will come in power and love, | |
| And with one wave of glory’s dazzling sword, | |
| Scare from their holy walls the Pagan horde. | 100 |
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| ’T is o’er,—a deadlier struggle earth ne’er knew, | |
| E’en fiends might shrink those scenes of blood to view; | |
| ’T is o’er,—a million hearts lie cold and still, | |
| And Rome’s dread eagle soars on Zion’s hill. | |
| Salem, the home of prophets, helpless lies, | 105 |
| The mean one’s jest, the raging heathen’s prize. | |
| Fire wraps her towers, her blazing Temple falls, | |
| With all its golden spires and cedared halls. | |
| Yes, that proud fane, as by an earthquake’s shock, | |
| Is hurled to dust, and levelled with the rock; | 110 |
| And o’er its site must pass the Latian plough— | |
| Seraphs! look down from heaven, and pity now! | |
| And if in your blessed eyes grief e’er appears, | |
| For lost and ruined Salem shed your tears! | |
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