DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM.

Ελευσονται (γαρ) ημεραι εν αις ουκ αφησονται λιθος επι λιθω ος ου καταλυθησεται.

Luc. Ev. c. xxi. v. 6.

Hark! again to the onset—the portals gape wide—
And the warriors stream forth in the rush of their pride,
The cold reckless eye of the Roman glows red,
At the sound of their deathlike and trumpetless tread;
For he knows that the workings of frenzy are there,
The triumph of death and the might of despair.
Hearts—that wildly live on but to riot in pain—
Lips—that laugh, as in scorn, at the links of the chain—
And full many a plume shall yon eagle let fall,
Ere she wing her fierce flight o’er the rift of the wall;
Ere she soar on the dark cloud of conquest and rest,
On the rock of that temple, the strength of her hest.

Thy foes are around thee, fair city of peace!—
Thy sons are fast sinking, the wicked increase—
Yet proudly, ev’n now, thy high-place dost thou hold,
Girt round with the pomp of their steel and their gold;
And a pearl of rich price, on thine hill-top art thou,
Meet to jewel the crown of a conqueror’s high brow.
Yet deem not thy sons to that haughty array,
Will fling thee unheeded, unbled for away.
Shall the proud heathen tread where thy prophets have trod?
Shall, the Flamen exult in the “Holy of God?”
No—the hearts of thy children are one,—to hurl back
The merciless wrath of the Gentiles’ attack.
For the home of their fathers towers yet in their eye,
As they lived will they live, as they died will they die.

But weak is thine armour, and worthless thy might,
A fiercer than man strives against thee in fight,
And in vain shall the chiefs of thy battle withstand
The voice of his thunder, the bolt in his hand;
His wrath knows no refuge, his might knows no bar.
The stout spear he rendeth, and burns the swift car.
Thou shalt crumble to nought in the day of his wrath,
Like the reed trampled down in the whirlwind’s wild path.

Weep, daughter of Judah! that tempest hath come,
And it laugheth to scorn the mild vengeance of Rome.
Weep, daughter of Judah! a vengeance so dread
Is bursting e’en now o’er thy desolate head,
That the stern Roman eyes it with doubt and with fear.
O’er the cheek of the conqueror there steals a soft tear
Aye! the heathen for thee feels a pang of regret—
—One blaze—and thy sun shall for ever be set;

One short flickering blaze;—and then passeth away
The glory of years in the work of a day:
The fair crown of Jacob lies trod in the dust.
And shipwreck’d is now the strong hold of his trust;
Tho’ the foxes have holes, and the fowls have a nest,
Yet the “seed of the Promised” finds nowhere to rest;
And despised shall he live on, in darkness and night,
Till a Salem more blessed shall gladden his sight;
The courts of whose house, in their measureless girth,
Shall compass the tribes and the thousands of earth;
Where none, save in triumph, their voices shall raise,
And no trump shall peal forth save the trumpet of praise,
In a realm far above, o’er that red eagle’s nest,
Where the proud cease from wrong, and the poor are at rest.