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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series77Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorThe Harp of SalemA Lady J. T. SmithEdinburgh, 1827[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. ISuppl:415. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler ISuppl:415mf.]

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[Title Page] THEHARP OF SALEM;A COLLECTION OF HISTORICAL POEMS,FROM THE SCRIPTURES.TOGETHER WITHSOME REFLECTIVE PIECES.BY A LADY.EDINBURGH:JAMES TAYLOR SMITH & CO.HUNTER SQUARE.1827.EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY W. BURNESS.CONTENTS.The Invocation1The Creation3The Fratricide6The Obedience of Abraham12The Five Kings overcome at Gibeon18Jephthah's Vow27The Lament of the Virgins for the Daughter of Jephthah31David anointed King over Israel34David overcomes Goliah39The Song of Triumph47Saul throws the Javelin at David49The Friendship of David and Jonathan51David's Generosity to Saul55Saul and the Witch of Endor61David's Lamentation over Saul65Elijah in the Wilderness69Elijah taken to Heaven75The Jewish Captives77Belshazzar's Feast79Angels announce the Birth of Christ94The raising of Lazarus from the Dead98Blind Bartimeus restored to Sight104Christ's Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem 110Christ's Agony in the Garden116The Crucifixion119The Resurrection of Christ126The Ascension of Christ129The Conclusion133Stanzas addressed to Man139On recovering from Sickness145God a present Help in time of Trouble149God our Help151Happiness in Death153The Course of the Sinner and Righteous Man155On the Transitoriness of Human Life158On the Mutability of Human Life, and the Cheering Hope ␣␣␣␣␣beyond the Grave161"There remaineth therefore a rest for the people of God"164The Fate of the Wicked169"Where is he?"172The Omniscience of God175The Prophet's Message178Psalm VIII.182Verses suggested by the XXIV Psalm185Psalm XXXIV, from the 8th Verse191Gleanings from Psalm XXXVII.197Psalm LXV.200Psalm LXVIII.203Psalm CIV.206Psalm CXXXIV.216Psalm CXXXV.217Psalm CXLVIII.220THEHARP OF SALEM.THE HARP OF SALEM.THE INVOCATION.HAIL, holy muse of Zion! child of heav'n!A mortal vot'ress bends before thy shrine,And suppliant sues, pure spirit! for thine aid.Hail, heav'nly power! again I bid thee hail!Descend in holy fervour on my soul;Shed that celestial influence o'er my head,And rouse within me the inspiring flameWhich glow'd within the heart of Jesse's son;Till, fir'd like him, I strike the sounding lyre,In tones of rapture, to Jehovah's praise.Hail, power sublime! my inmost spirit ownsThey sacred inspiration. Bold I seizeThe Harp of Salem, and with daring handSweep o'er its golden strings,—and wake once moreIts solemn chords, with trembling, ardent zeal.THE CREATION.CREATING power! how wond'rous was the might,Which called from non‐existence, by a word,This lovely world! which said, "Let there be light,"While darkness spread its ebon wing abroad.God said, "Let there be light," and from on highThe new born radiance shot its infant ray,Ere crimson, gold, or sapphire, arch'd the sky,Or the bright sun diffus'd the glorious day.Then o'er the deep he rear'd the vault of heav'n,And stretch'd the floating, silvery clouds on air.He spake, and wild confusion's waves were driv'nBefore his bidding; and so sweetly fairYoung Order reign'd, that even the Sov'reign PowerPronounc'd it good, and bade the new‐form'd landBear on its bosom, herb, and tree, and flower,In blooming plenty, scatter'd by his hand.Then in the firmament of heav'n, on high,He said, "Let there be light to rule the world;"And the Sun roll'd his car thro' the blue sky,And the young Moon her silver crest unfurl'd;And all the starry train that gem the night,In sparkling glory, shed their gentle beams,—Orion, giant warrior, flamed in light,And Hesper's golden light serenely streams.Then said he, "Let the waters of the mainTeem with abundant life;" and as he spoke,The tenants of the deep—a numerous train—To being, and its active joys awoke.And the wing'd people of the woods and valesThen also ow'd existence to his power;From the bold eagle, monarch of the hills,To the sweet warblers of the woodland bower.Again his word went forth, and the green earthBrought forth the creatures of the sylvan reign;At once it gave the lordly lion birth,And the meek flocks which graze the flow'ry plain.Then highest over all thy works, O Lord,Thou formed'st man—the offspring of the clod,But placed him sovereign, and with powerful word,Bade him stand forth—the image of his God.Now were thy seven days' works complete; and highThe shouts of cherubim, in rapture, rose;The morning stars together sang for joy,And music in celestial sweetness flows. THE FRATRICIDE.CALM and pure was the noontide rayThat shot thro' heaven, serenely bright,Of a lovely, cloudless summer day,And a morn which dawn'd in golden light.But thunder roll'd thro' darken'd heaven,And lightnings glar'd athwart the sky,When twilight brought the hour of even,And night commenc'd her reign on high.Bright rose the sun at morning dawn,And bright was his meridian beam;Sweet was his smile on daisied lawn,And sweet his glance on limpid stream.But when he set, it was in gloom,Amid the tears of th' troubl'd sky;For blood had stain'd the flow'ret's bloom,And vengeance threaten'd from on high.The pale moon hid in clouds her face;The shrouded stars refus'd to shine;For the first‐born of Adam's raceHad shed the blood of Adam's line.A brother, by a brother's arm,Lay stretch'd in death, upon the sod;Earth shudder'd at the life‐tide warm,And murder rous'd an angry God.Envy, dire passion! was it thouThat scowled'st in the murd'rer's eyes,When he beheld his brother bowBefore th' accepted sacrifice?Yes; he had seen the flame of HeavenBright o'er the shepherd's altar glow;With token that to him was givenThe beam which lightens human woe.Dark, baleful malice! child of hell!'Twas thou that fir'd'st his madden'd brain,And nerv'd'st his hand when Abel fell,And human gore first dyed the plain.But mark him now—that murd'rer, lostIn all the agony of guilt!Behold his troubl'd bosom toss'dIn anguish—till that hour unfelt.By the pale dead he stands, and calls—"Abel, my brother, Abel, rise;"O'er the cold corpse he prostrate falls,Whilst wild despair glar'd in his eyes.He sees the crimson stream of lifeHath sprinkled many a blushing flower;He rushes from the scene of strife,And flies from his domestic bower.He seeks the deepest, darkest shades,And wanders 'mid the gloom of night:He haunts the wildest forest glades,And trembles at returning light.But hark! what thunders rend the sky;Clouds, roll'd on clouds, the night deform;The voice of God resounds on high,In majesty, amid the storm."Cain! why so dismal is thy brow?Where is thy brother Abel, where?"Behold the dread‐struck sinner bowBefore his judge, in dark despair."I know not;—me, unhappy man!My brother's keeper mak'st thou me?"—"What hast thou done, lost, guilty one?Earth loathes, and Heaven abandons thee!"Even from the ground thy brother's bloodLoud calls for vengeance on thy head:The dust received the vital flood,By thee, fierce, daring sinner shed."Earth, stained with the blood of man,Air, tainted with foul murder's breath,Are leagu'd against thee, guilty one!—Toil is thy doom—toil unto death."The ground, accursed for thy crime,No more shall wave with golden grain,Till woe and labour bring the timeWhen harvest crowns the cultur'd plain."Go, gloomy murd'rer—lost one go!A vagabond, an exile roam,—Abandon'd to thy bosom's woe;A wanderer without a home."And lo! though years may pass away,And a new race of mortals rise,Cain still shall shrink before the rayOf innocence, in human eyes."And all who view his guilt‐stain'd check,And all who mark his haggard eye,Abhorring, shall their horror speak,And shudd'ring from his presence fly."THE OBEDIENCE OF ABRAHAM.'TWAS night—a night so calmly fair,That scarce a zephyr fann'd the trees;So mild, so pure the midnight air,That heaven seem'd breathing on the breeze.The call'd of God, on tranquil bed,Lay softly wrapt in balmy rest;Almighty power watch'd o'er his head;No fears disturb'd his peaceful breast.When lo! a voice, in stilly night,In solemn sounds broke on his ear;He started, and beheld the lightWhich blaz'd on man when God was near."Abraham," it called;—the faithful manArose, and knelt before his Lord,—"Behold thy servant! here I am;Almighty One, I wait thy word."But chilly beat the father's heart,When the Highest One commanding, said—"Arise, and with the morn departFor far Moriah's distant shade:"And take thy age's darling hope,And seek the mountain's lonely wild,And offer, on its rugged top,A sacrifice—thine only child!"It is thy will, my King! my God!It is thy will, and I obey;I yield, and kiss the chast'ning rod:O guide my path,—direct my way!"Paternal feeling tore his heart,Anguish enforc'd the starting tear;—Oh! must his own hand raise the dart,And shed the blood of one so dear?It must,—his fault'ring tongue must bidHis servants and the youth arise:—"We seek Moriah's tow'ring head,Our God demands a sacrifice."They journey'd till the dawning lightOf the third day appear'd in heav'n;Then to the prophet's shudd'ring sight,The place of suffering was given."My son, behold yon mountain rise,We seek alone its savage wild;Such is the mandate of the skies—We go alone, my darling child."The wond'ring son obeys the sire,And bears the fuel for the flame;The anguish'd parent holds the fire,And does not, dares not, ev'n complain"Behold the wood— behold the fire—Behold the knife, "young Isaac cries;"But thou must have forgot, my sire,The lambkin for the sacrifice.""No," Abraham answer'd; "God, my son,Doth for himself a lamb provide;And be his just commandment done—It fits not man his will to chide."The son gaz'd in his father's eyes,And marvell'd at his hidden woe:The sire averts his face and sighs;For still the struggling tears would flow."This is the spot, the destin'd wild"—The much enduring parent cries—"And, O, my own beloved child!'Tis thou that art the sacrifice.""Then, lo, my father! lo, I kneel!A cheerful offering," Isaac said;"Devoted I await the steel—God can awake the sleeping dead."The altar now is rear'd; the knifeIs trembling in the parent's hand;The willing victim offers life,And bows to the supreme command.The arm is rais'd—behold, it falls!What stays the faithful? Is it fear?No;—hark! from heav'n an angel calls,And sounds of mercy bless the ear.Serenely sweet the gentle wordFell from the sky in accents mild:"Stay, chosen servant of the Lord,Touch not, nor harm, thy prostrate child."Thy well tried faith, the Eternal views—Well pleased; and here once more, by me,His gracious promises renews,And o'er all mortals blesseth thee."As numerous as the stars on high,Which spangle o'er night's sable vest;—As numerous as the sands which lieUpon the sea‐shore's trackless breast,"Shall be thy seed; and blest shall be,Ev'n to the earth's remotest climes,All nations of the world in thee,—Blest thro' all ages' varying times."THE FIVE KINGS OVERCOME ATGIBEON.THE dawning day with crimson ting'd the east,And bright the sun rose over Gibeon's towers,Gilding its palaces and temples proudWith all the radiance of the morn's first beams;Whose bright rays sparkl'd on the dewy grass—Glitter'd and glow'd upon the opening flowersWhich painted Canaan's lovely fields;—the roseOf Sharon, and that sweet, pale, snowy gem,The lily of the valley—type of all In virgin innocence that fairest seems,Withdrawing modesty and spotless truth. Nor these alone were brighten'd; on the dashOf waterfall the sunbeams danc'd, and turnedThe liquid spray into a diamond shower;And all the still, cold bosom of the lakeGlow'd like a sea of molten gold, and gaveThe orient clouds reflected on its breast.But what long line of light from Gilgal comes,Winding among yon mountains and yon vales?'Tis Israel's heroes—the belov'd of heaven!Onward they march to Gibeon's foe‐girt walls:Commanded of the Highest, on they move,Fearless of danger—not a dread is theirs—No heart among them quakes—no cheek is pale:Their strength is in their God; he is their shieldIn hour of deadly danger, and their swordThat fights for them, and lays their mighty foesProne in the dust—all prostrate at their feet.Secure in heaven's protection, and secureOf coming victory, they view their foes,In formidable numbers, proudly standIn all the pomp of martial honours drest:Five warlike nations, headed by their kings;Men of high stature, and of giant strength,Whose sword puissant rear'd appears a flashOf vivid glory darting through the sky.The men of Gibeon see the friendly troopsAdvancing to their rescue;—soon they seeThe awful conflict dark'ning on the plain,And rolling mid the hills. They sally forth,Eager to join the combat: fierce they rush,Panting for vengeance, on their ruthless foes.Now shouts of men ascend; the din of warRages in all its horror; spear on spearGleams dreadfully; the iron clang of swordsEchoes around; the groans of death rise wild,And hollow sounds of woe;—the victor's shout;The vanquish'd's piercing cry for mercy; andThe sights of human agony which strewThe ensanguin'd turf; the ghastly heaps of slainThat, pile on pile, still swell and frown around;—These are thy terrors, War—thy trophies these!The joy of warriors, and the pride of kings.Trophies, alas! the desolated land,The burning cottage, and its inmates slain;—Its joys—the wailing parent, widow'd bride,And weeping orphans mourning o'er the bier—Th' untimely bier—of him who was their all;O, short lived pride! soon sullied in the dust!Almighty One! how dreadful is thine ire,When stretch'd in vengeance o'er the guilty landsThat have provok'd thy long‐forbearing wrath!Dreadful in majesty; thy frown then fallsIn awful justice on the sinners, andHurls them, and name and nation, from the world.Fierce was the fight at Gibeon, but the kingsOf Canaan, and their hosts must yield to heaven.Jehovah wars for Israel. Lightnings flash,And thunders roll, in dreadful majesty,And headlong cat'racts dash from their high rocks;The brooks are swell'd to rivers, and their streamsSweep through the vales, and, as they rush along,O'erwhelm the trembling foes of the Most High.Now had the son gain'd his meridian height,And from his bright throne in the sapphire skyBeheld the dreadful conflict;—Till his courseIs run in space, and the eternal day,That needs no sun, beam bright for evermore,—Will he no more behold such day of strangeAnd awful wonders; nor at man's weak voiceWill he, arrested, stop his rapid race,And, as spell‐bound, at mortal bidding chainHis flaming steeds for a long summer day.For, as he roll'd along, the madd'ning warStill, still more fiercely rag'd;—tho' many sonsOf Canaan gasp'd in death; tho' many bent,Vanquish'd, and own'd the force of Israel's sword;Tho' lightnings glar'd thro' heaven, and thunders roll'd;Tho' hailstones rattl'd on their broken shields,Or, falling on their heads, the affrighted soulsDrove from their earthly homes to other worlds;Tho' whelming waters others gulph'd, and boreThe struggling wretches down to death and ruin;—Yet still the awful work had much to do.Jehovah's mandate had gone forth, and said—"Destroy these scorners of my name; let noneEscape, nor prince nor peasant, bond nor free.Joshua, my chosen hero! till the nightSink in deep gloom upon the field of blood,Pursue them thro' Beth‐horon—smite them toAzehah, and Makkedah's distant land:Stay not thy hand, nor slack, till all is done."The sun still flaming in heaven's arch appear'd; The moon rose on Ajelon's lonely vale:The leader of the hosts of Jacob liftsHis eyes to the blue vault; inspir'd he seems,And raises high his supplicating armsTo Abraham's God, and prays he may be heard,—When he entreats for light to guide his way,Till he avenge the people on their foes.Upon an eminence Joshua stands,Close by the ark of God; the priests by itIn all their holy vestments are arrayed;Those sacred trumpets of ram's horns they bear,Which sounded, Jericho, thy final knell!Their hands are also raised to heaven; they prayFor Israel: but mark the warrior chief;What holy fervour animates his eyes!He speaks;—that awful adjuration hear,Which made the sun forbear his onward course,And stay'd the pale moon's lamp in middle heav'n."Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon," he exclaims;"And thou, moon, on the vale of Ajelon:Stand still ye luminaries of this world,I conjure you! stand still,—nor move from thenceUntil your Maker on the sons of men(Who, turning from him, bend to other gods)Hath hurl'd his wrath, and dash'd them from his sight."He ceas'd; and, wondrous strange! the sun stood stillOn Gibeon's princely palaces and towers;And the pale moon on Ajelon's deep vale—Till Israel's returning shouts proclaim'dThe triumph of their arms, and rose‐crown'd maidsTo hail their fathers, brothers, lovers, danc'd To dulcet tones of richest harmony,Still mingling with the lovely strains which flow'dFrom lips so fondly lov'd, and rather seem'dTo their devoted warriors like the notesOf angel melody, in those bright realmsWhere rapture never ends, and joy for ever reigns.JEPHTHAH'S VOW.THE leader of Israel had vow'd to the Lord,When his marshall'd hosts against Ammon were led,That if victory crowned his battling sword,On the altar of heav'n should an off'ring be laid.And O what an off'ring! the first who should comeTo hail his return from victorious strife;The first that appear'd from his own happy home,Should bleed by his hand—be it daughter or wife.His daughter! that soft and affectionate child?The loveliest blossom of Gilead's bough!The pride of the hero! the beauteous! the mild?—And the trembling warrior shrunk from his vow.The wife of his bosom! Oh, should it be she!His partner in exile—his soother in care!Avert it kind heaven—oh, such doom may not be!—And the conqueror shudder'd, in boding despair.The children of Ammon are vanquished now,And the glad shouts of Israel echo afar;The wreath of the victor encircles his brow,And his kindred proclaim him their chieftain in war.In triumph returning, now homeward they bend,Each bosom beats high for its dear native vale;'Mid yon hills now the turrets of Mizpah ascend,And music at distance streams sweet on the gale.Whose dwelling is yon 'neath the sycamore's shade,Which the vine and the olive encompass around;Where the myrtle and rose rear their fragrant head,And the flowers of the valley besprinkle the ground?What maiden is she who springs from that bower,Whose dark tresses chaplets of roses entwine?'Tis thy lovely child, Jephthah, proud Gilead's flow'r!That embowered dwelling, rash father, is thine.The fair one is first—for she rushes to hailThe steps of a parent and conquering chief;The harp and the timbrel resound thro' the vale,—But Jephthah stands fix'd in the silence of grief.The maid is before him—enraptur'd she flies—"All hail to my father, the dread of the foe!"The horror‐struck hero in agony cries," 'Tis my child,—then alas! I am destin'd to woe."Sole offspring of Jephthah! delight of my eyes!My hand is unnerv'd, and my life's blood is cold:My daughter, alas! 'tis my daughter that dies!'Tis recorded in heav'n, and who dare withhold?A moment the rosy blush fled from her cheek,She raised her dark eyes in anguish to heav'n;The pulse in her bosom was trembling and weak,The current of life from its fountain was driv'n.She must die that the fame of her father might live;And courage returns—she feareth not death:"Thou hast vowed to Jehovah, my father—then giveThe forfeit to heav'n—'tis a fast‐fleeting breath."Yet spare me a space on the mountains to roam,With my weeping companions, that fair virgin train,That we may amid their wild solitudes moanMy youth's early doom, ere I sink on the plain."O daughter of Jephthah! soon wither'd thy bloom;Fair hands with fresh flow'rs are adorning thine urn;Thy ashes repose 'mid the peace of the tomb,Thy fate the sad daughters of Israel mourn.THE LAMENT OF THE VIRGINS FOR THE DAUGHTER OF JEPHTHAH.SIGH ye gales round Mizpah blowing,Weep ye clouds that hover there;Flow'rets cease, O cease your glowing;Droop your heads, and woo despair!For the fairest now is sleepingLow in an untimely grave,Whilst the dews of heav'n are weepingOn the boughs which o'er her wave.Her harp's soft strain no more ascending,Floats in music on the gale;Her seraph voice in sweetness blending,Warbles not now thro' the vale.A spotless off'ring to JehovahFell the loveliest of our land:Mourn her fate, ye dames of Mizpah,Weep, O weep, ye virgin band!Calmly she the blow received,Meekly bent to meet her doom;Less than all around she grieved,Fearless hail'd a bloody tomb.Warriors' eyes were dim with weeping,Blooming cheeks were pale with fear;But the maid, now lowly sleeping,Heav'd no sigh, and shed no tear.She knelt—she fell.—The stroke is given—Childless is our conquering chief;Her angel spirit rose to heaven,Jephthah, calm, O calm thy grief!Low thou liest, hapless maiden;Cold is the turf upon thy breast;The roses o'er thy urn are fading,—Silent is thy place of rest.DAVID ANOINTED KING OVER ISRAEL.THE prophet of the Lord in Ramah mourn'dFor his offending king, before his God;For Saul, rebellious, had the mandate spurn'dOf heav'n—and Heav'n now frown'd on his abode.Far more Jehovah loves obedience, thanA thousand off'rings on his altars laid:The righteous judge of angels, and of men,Humbles the proud, and lifts the lowly head.And Saul had disobey'd the dread command;And the Most Holy, from his throne on high,Rejected him from ruling o'er his land,And call'd on Samuel from the midnight sky."Samuel, my servant! say why dost thou mournO'er the rebellious king of Jacob's line?I have abandon'd him who dar'd to scornThe sacred bidding of the Pow'r divine,"Fill now thine horn with oil; arise, and goTo Jesse, in Bethlehem's rural dale—My future king is of his sons: and loHe feeds his flocks amid the woody vale."The prophet went; and now Bethlehem's plainsAre glowing with the altar's hallow'd fires;The seer exclaims—"Among thy youthful swains,Jesse, our God his future king desires."The happy father calls his sons; and loThe eldest, Eliab, pass'd with lofty stride:"Is this the captain of the Highest?" No;God chooseth not the haughty eye of pride;He seeth not as seeth blinded man;He judgeth not by the fair outward part:Mortals alone the mortal fabric scan,—Th' Omniscient views the secrets of the heart.Abinadab and Shammah came; but stillThe prophet answer'd—" 'Tis not this, nor this:"Seven sons at once obey their father's will;Nor one of them the future monarch is,"Are these now all thy sons? the prophet said;"Are all thy children here upon the plain?""No; still another loiters in the shade,—He is the youngest, and a shepherd swain.Far in the distant vale he tends the flocks;It cannot be the Lord would call the child;Few days have darken'd o'er his sunny locks—I thought not of him in the lonely wild.""Send now and fetch him," Samuel answering cries;"We may not rest until the boy appears."He came, the youthful favourite of the skies!Lovely, and graceful in his blooming years.The prophet bent to meet him—"Hail!" he said;"The chosen of Almighty God art thou;I pour the sacred oil upon thy head;Our subject land must to thy sceptre bow."Above thy brethren I thee chief proclaim—Head of our tribes, on mountain, dale, and vale;Blest of the Lord shall be thy prosp'rous reign;Sov'reign of Israel, hail! King David, hail!"Thy throne and sceptre shall for ever stand;Thy offspring earth's remotest regions sway:From thee shall come the pride of Judah's land,The Sun that sheds on man immortal day."Hail, father of the Saviour of our race!Hail, root from which the holy Branch shall spring!Heav'n shields thee ever in its fond embrace,Father of Zion's everlasting King."DAVID OVERCOMES GOLIAH.THE clouds of war were gathering o'er the land;The marshall'd Philistine had pitch'd his tentIn Ephis‐dammim; Saul and Israel layArray'd for combat by lone Elah's vale.Two craggy mountains rais'd their shaggy topsWith threat'ning frown to heav'n; on each the hostOf rival nations were encamp'd; the valeWhich stretch'd between them gave its flowery breast(So soon to be the scene of blood and death)Regardless of the future, to the glowOf the sweet sun‐beams of a placid sky.But mark yon warrior striding thro' the vale,How proudly daring is his threat'ning port!Gigantic is his stature—and how fierceThe lightning glances of his eagle eye!It is Goliah—Gath's far‐dreaded chief—The champion of the hosts of Palestine.Array'd in brass the dreadful warrior stands(Like some high tow'r) in shining armour bound;His spear is in his hand,—its staff appearsLike the proud pine of woody Lebanon;Its head tremendous glares in polish'd steel—No common arm could raise its pond'rous weight.But hark, he speaks!—his voice re‐echoes loud;Like thunder, how it vibrates on the ear!What says the infidel? hark, how he daresThe listening armies of the living God."Servants of Saul! ye tribes of Israel hear!Why stretch ye forth your dwarfish squadrons there?Why war ye with the sons of Palestine?Submit your legions to our greater arms;Or if ye have a warrior in your campWho dare encounter me with spear and shield,Behold I wait your champion—let him come;And, if he conquer me in deadly strife,Our country shall be yours, and we your slaves;But if my spear prevail, then must ye bowObedient to our yoke, and serve our lords.Your bands, ye men of Israel, I defy—To mortal strife your boldest warriors call!"Israel is dumb with terror;—not a man,From prince, to peasant, dares the vaunting foe.Saul is unman'd—his soul is dark with fear:Even Abner trembles for the tott'ring throne.Almighty King of Jacob, where art thou? Hast thou, just God, forgot thine heritage?Hast thou abandon'd them, Eternal One?And are thy chosen people doom'd to die?No;—for behold the anointed of the Lord,—The appointed conqueror seeks the tented field.It cannot be that blooming shepherd boy,—The tuneful minstrel of Bethlehem's plains?No armour shrouds his person, still he wearsThe simple habit of rustic swain;No helmet guards his head, his bright locks flyIn wanton ringlets on the fluttering breeze:No sword, no shield be bears;—his shield is God,His sword the mighty arm that rules the sky;His shepherd's staff supports his youthful steps,His shepherd's scrip is cross his shoulders hung;A sling is in his hand; five pebbles smooth,From the pure brook, are all his arms of war.But mark, Goliah! doth the youth grow pale?Doth one foreboding horror heave his breast?No—for his confidence is plac'd in heav'n;The Highest nerves his bosom. David smiles—The hand that sav'd him from the lion's paw—That sav'd him from the bear's devouring mouth—Is still stretch'd forth for him;—he fears not man,And less than all, the heathen who could thusDefy the armies of the Omnipotent.But see, the giant scowls upon the youth,And frowns upon him with a fierce disdain.Hear how he curses him by all his gods:—"Art thou come forth against me, beardless boy?Art thou the champion of the hosts of Saul?Back to the wilderness and feed thy sheep,—Thou harping minion of a frenzied king!Dost thou come forth against me as againstA dog—arm'd with thy sling and shepherd's crook?Come, and I'll give thy flesh to feed the fowlsOf yon blue sky, and feast the beasts of earth."But hear the answer of the dauntless youth,As fearlessly he looks upon his foe:"Thou com'st against me arm'd with sword and spear—Thou com'st against me arm'd with helm and shield:But I oppose thee in the awful nameOf the Almighty God—the Lord of Hosts—The powerful King of Israel's armed bands,Whom thou, vain‐glorious heathen, hast defied.The living God, who heard thy vaunting voice,Shall vanquish thee—even by my feeble hand:That all the nations of the world may knowThat Israel hath a great—a dreadful God;And that all tribes may learn he saveth notBy sword and spear, but by his might alone.The battle is the Lord's, and he will giveThe Philistine's proud ranks into our hands."Dark frown'd the giant, and he rush'd to crushThe blooming hero with one awful stroke.The fearless stripling whirls the fatal sling—A pebble sinks into Goliah's brain.The giant staggers—see, he falls to earth—He groans—the hills re‐echo to the sound.Champion of Judah, thou hast bravely done!The grim head now adorns thy victor hand.Hark how the armed tribes of Israel shout!See how they chase the flying Philistine!How dreadful is the rout! the conquer'd foeStrew Shaaraim with their dying bands.Still, still the havock rages—wide it spreadsThrough the far vale, to Ekron's gates, and Gath's.Loud is the triumph now—the rescu'd landHails its deliverer with tumultuous joy.Daughters of Israel! how your voices swellIn strains of rapture to the tabret's sound!But hush! ye rouse the envy of your King;Point not his hate against that youthful head,Nor make the monarch jealous of your love.THE SONG OF TRIUMPH.HAIL to our monarch returning victorious!Hail to his champion, our leader in war!Bright be the sun that has risen so glorious—Be the fame of the conqueror echo'd afar.Thousands have fall'n by the hand of our sovereign—Ten thousands are low by his champion's sword;Joy o'er the banners of Israel is hovering:Victory crowned the hosts of the LordStrike, strike the harp in measures harmonious;Let music resound through our cities afar:Hail, hail our King in numbers melodious!Hail to his champion, our leader in war!Saul vanquish'd thousands—his foes fly before him;David of Judah ten thousands hath slain;He rescued our country, the virgins adore him,—The warrior shepherd, the pride of the plain.Hail to our monarch returning victorious!Hail to his champion, our leader in war!Bright be the Sun that has risen so glorious—Be the fame of the conqueror echo'd afar.SAUL THROWS THE JAVELIN ATDAVID.THE warrior shepherd before Israel's kingStruck the high harp with sweet bewitching hand;Melodious numbers warbl'd on its string,To soothe the wretched monarch of the land.A fiend malignant rag'd within his breast,And sway'd triumphant o'er his madden'd brain;But harmony could lull his cares to rest,And chase the demon spirit from its reign.The son of Jesse woke the tuneful lyre,And softest music floated on the gale;His youthful bosom glow'd with minstrel fire,—The royal bard of Bethlehem's woody vale.Sadness had clouded o'er Saul's troubl'd soul,Ideal terrors trembl'd in his heart,Futurity before his eye would roll,—He saw his glory and his crown depart.Sweet sung the warlike favourite of the land,But still the monarch frown'd with alter'd eye;The pointed javelin glitters in his hand—'Tis aim'd at David—must the anointed die?No; harmless on the wall the weapon rings,The jealous king is foil'd, the minstrel gone;Safe from the royal presence quick he springs,—And seeks the desert mournful and alone.THE FRIENDSHIP OF DAVID ANDJONATHAN.FRIENDSHIP! thou holy, tender tie!Sweet soother of the human breast!How lovely is thy beaming eye!How tranquil is thy bosom's rest!Oh, what were man if thou wert gone!A pilgrim in a wilderness:But thou illuminat'st his homeWith sun‐beams of celestial bliss.Even love torments, with tyrant power,When most he rules the captive heart;But thou art like the lily flower,Which bears no thorn, and leaves no dart.Thou wert more priz'd in David's eyes,Than all a monarch could bestow;Far dearer were thy precious ties,Than victory o'er a powerful foe.His fate was brighten'd by thy bloom,When favourite of a royal head;By thee was lightened his doom,When from a jealous king he fled.When conquest crown'd his daring armThou hail'd'st him from the field of strife;When envy threaten'd him with harm,Thou watched'st anxious o'er his life.His prince still shar'd his every joy,Or sooth'd affliction's festering dart:Nought could the firm regard destroy,Of the lov'd brother of his heart.Brothers by a more tender tieThan that which leagues the kindred pair;The prince and champion of the landIn secret meet,—part in despair.The prince fears not that David's handWill grasp from him the regal sway,Kingless ere then must be the land,Cold, Jonathan—in mould'ring clay.Ere then Gilboa's mountain sideMust be the scene of death and woe;For there—even there, shall Israel's prideFall humbl'd by an haughty foe.Low sleeping 'mid the silent dead,Their eye‐balls dark, their bosoms chill,The prince and sovereign shall be laidAll prostrate on the bloody hill.For Saul and Jonathan must fall,—In the lost battle's scene of dread;Heav'n will not hear, tho' Israel call,Nor save the people's royal head.Then shall the grief of David flow—Friendship and hate alike are gone;For side by side his friend and foeRepose, and leave a vacant throne.And he shall grasp the fallen spear,And rush for vengeance to the field:Saul's conquerors then shall shake with fear,The enemies of Israel yield.DAVID'S GENEROSITY TO SAUL.DAVID, arise—'tis dead of night,Thine enemy is sleeping laid;Arise, the moon gives feeble light—Saul's thousands slumber round his bed.But who will David's steps attend,And share with him the perilous hour?"Come, Abishai—come, my friend,And dare with me the tyrant's pow'r."The pair arose; the moon‐beams guideThem on to where the monarch lay;Round him array'd, in martial pride,His sleeping thousands wait the day."A death‐like slumber chains the band;See, persecuted hero, seeThy ruthless foe beneath thy hand:Strike, outlaw'd chief, and thou art free;"Or let thy servant give the blow."In vengeance Abishai cries:"I lift my spear against a foe—I strike but once, and lo! he dies."Are we not like the hunted roe,Still flying, chas'd from place to place?Art thou not like the timid doe,That coucheth in the wilderness?"Strike, and a sceptre waits thy hand;Strike, and a crown adorns thy head:Behold, the God of Israel's landThy foe beneath thy feet hath laid!""No," David answer'd; "God forbidThat I should raise a guilty handAgainst the oil‐anointed head—Against the monarch of the land."Destroy him not; for who shall dareThus smite the Lord's anointed King?Such foul rebellious deed forbear:Stain not thy soul with such a thing."As the Lord liveth, and beholdsThe actions of the sons of men;Even Jehovah, who upholdsThe upright from the sinner's ken—"Saul yet shall fall, tho' not by me;Another hand shall lay him low:Our God himself shall set us free—His arm shall rid us of our foe."But bring, my Abishai, bringThe cruse of water, and the spearWhich rest beside the sleeping king,And haste away—why stand we here?"Morn dawn'd upon Hachilah hill—Morn dawn'd upon the desert lone—The sun‐beams danced upon the vale;But David and his friend were gone.But seest thou yonder rock arise?The outlaw'd warriors on it stand;The chief to his pursuers cries—"Lo! your king's spear is in my hand."Abner, first of the hosts of Saul,Say, art not thou a valiant man?Even by thy side thy lord might fall,And thou sleep—thou careless one!"At dead of night, even by his bed,I stood, unscar'd at midnight hour:None watch'd their sov'reign's sleeping head;He lay expos'd to vengeful power."But Heav'n forbid that I should harmThe Lord's anointed, sacred one;That I should lift a traitor armAgainst the monarch and the man."My lord, my father! thou dost knowThy servant would not injure thee;Why art thou then my deadly foe?Why dost thou hatred bear to me?"What is the evil I have done?What guiltiness is in my hand,That thou should'st chase thy faithful sonO'er ev'ry mountain of the land?"Thou huntest me thro' wood and dale,With unrelenting, cruel strife;Thou huntest me o'er hill and vale,Yet lo! I would not touch thy life."Saul heard the voice—he saw the spearGleam bright in David's distant hand;Remorse awoke a transient tear—He stood confus'd before his band."Forgive me, O my son!" he cries;"No more my hand shall injure thee;My life was precious in thine eyes,And thou art safe henceforth with me."SAUL AND THE WITCH OF ENDOR.'Tis night,—the azure vault is dim,Scarce twinkles in its arch a star;The moon, half veil'd, looks from the skyIn pity on the sons of war.Gilboa, scene of coming death!Clouds darkly shroud thy mountain head;To‐morrow's sun shall see thee groanBeneath the dying, and the dead.'Tis night in yonder vaulted sky,'Tis night upon Gilboa's hill,'Tis night in Endor's wizard wild,'Tis night in Shunem's tented vale.But who is he, that thro' the gloom,Seeks Endor, to unveil his fate?'Tis Saul, deserted of his God,—The king who dar'd Jehovah's hate.In hour of rage, the priests of heav'nBefore the ruthless monarch fell;And heaven will now no answer give,And Saul implores the powers of hell.He bids the witch rouse from the deadThe sleeping prophet to his view;And lo! the shrouded seer appears,All pale, in chill death's ghastly hue.But yet, even thro' death's fearful veil,The monarch knew the holy man,And bending he implores the sageHis future destinies to scan.With hollow voice the spirit cries,"How hast thou dar'd to trouble me? Or why invoke my feeble aid,Seeing thy God abandons thee?"And, as he spake while yet I liv'd,He rends the kingdom from thy hand,And giv'st it to the man thou hat'st,—Even to the exile of the land."To David, Jesse's warlike son,Whom thou pursu'st with cruel power;To him thy throne, thy might is given—Lo! nigh is thy last regal hour."To‐morrow is a day of dread,And tho' its sun shall dawn on thee,Yet ere its last declining beam,Thou, and thy sons, shall be with me."Jehovah frowns upon thy war,And Israel, vanquished and low,Shall heap Gilboa with their slain,And sink before a heathen foe."To‐morrow—mark me!" Samuel said,"Ere sinks the bright sun's golden light—To‐morrow thou shalt be with me,Wrapt in the shades of death and night!"Prone fell the horror‐stricken king,And shudder'd at his coming doom:He shrunk in anguish from his fate;Yet rush'd upon an opening tomb.DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER SAULAND JONATHAN.THE beauty of Israel is wither'd and low,It hath fall'n in blood on yon dark mountain's side;The mighty have sunk 'neath the hand of the foe,And the sons of the Philistine triumph in pride.O tell not in Gath the cause of our sorrow;In Askelon name not our grief or our shame—Nor let the proud daughters of Palestine borrow,From the depth of our anguish, the height of their fame.Ye hills of Gilboa! dire fields of the slain!May no dew‐drop sprinkle your mountainous head;May rain never bless your stain'd herbage again,May your foliage be blasted—your soft verdure fled.For on you was broken the shield of the brave—The shield of the valiant thrown vilely away;Our glory engulph'd in dishonour's dark wave,And black clouds of ruin roll'd over our day.Our monarch is fallen, he sleeps with the slain;As oil had not sprinkl'd his hallowed head:The glory of Jacob is sought for in vain—It is buried in dust—it is low with the dead.From blood of the slain, from the mighty in war,Thy fatal bow, Jonathan, turn'd not away;And the bright sword of Saul shed vengeance afar,When it flash'd, like a sun‐beam, on victory's day.How lovely, how pleasant, in life's glowing hour,Were the sov'reign and prince of our desolate lands;Together they march'd in the pomp of their pow'r,Together they sleep, 'mid their vanquished bands.They were swifter than eagles, when tow'ring on high;All fearless they soar, 'mid the clouds of the storm;They were stronger than lions, as dauntless their eye,When they rush'd on the foes that our country deform.O'er Saul, then, ye daughters of Israel weep,Who cloth'd you in scarlet, and gem'd you with gold;With the low‐lying dead our warriors sleep,The pride of the battle are silent and cold.O how are ye fallen, ye chiefs of the brave!O how are ye fallen, ye dread of the foe!Gilboa, O Jonathan, now is thy grave;On thy mountains thou liest all breathless and low!In anguish my bosom is heaving for thee,O brother, and friend of my now lonely breast;How sweet, O how dear was thy friendship to me!—My spirit is mournful, my soul is distress'd.Thy love, O my brother, was wond'rous for me!The fondness of woman it even surpass'd;But now my harp wakes its sad numbers for thee,For thy stately head sunk 'mid the deep howling blast. O how aye the mightiest fallen and gone!The weapons of battle are faded away:Raise, daughters of Israel, raise the sad moan,For your glory hath sunk in Gilboa's dark day.ELIJAH IN THE WILDERNESS.FROM the fierce fury of the heathen QueenOf the degen'rate race of Israel's land,Elijah, just and holy, fled, to saveHis threaten'd life from her revengeful hate.His hand, embolden'd by his zeal for heav'n,Had slain the prophets of her idol god;And she pursues with unrelenting rage,The chosen servant of the Eternal One.Lonely and sad, amid the wilderness,Behold the persecuted prophet kneel,In agony of soul, before his God;Hark! from his lips what words of anguish flow!"Almighty One! O let me die," he cries,"What am I better than my fathers were?And lo! they sleep in dust, and so would I —How welcome to my soul would be the quiet,The calm repose of the still house of death!"Jehovah heard his servant; and he bentA pitying eye from heav'n, and bade a sweetAnd gentle slumber veil his weeping eyes.Elijah sleeps; above his hoary head,A juniper extends its friendly shade,And angel guardians watch o'er his repose;When lo! descending from the courts of heaven,A glorious seraph wings his rapid way;And stooping o'er the lonely spot, where restsThe persecuted servant of his Lord,He droops his starry wings, and stays his flight.A smile celestial plays upon his lips,Brightens his polish'd brow, and glows uponThe heavenly roses of his beauteous cheek;As, bending o'er the holy man, he wakesThe sleeping mortal, and in accents softAs summer breezes, bids him rise, and eat.Starting, the prophet opes his heavy eyes,And sees beside him heav'n‐provided food,And water also; for the God who fedThe wand'ring tribes of Israel forty years,In the lone desert's wild and sterile waste,Feeds also now his servant, and hath sentHis angel with this meal to mortal man.Almighty God! how marvellous is thy loveTo the frail sons of Adam's guilty race!Thou know'st their feeble frames of breathing dustAre but the flowers of earth,—but transient flowers,Which bloom and blossom but to fade and die.And liberally thou dost provide for allTheir little wants, and watchest o'er them still.Again sleep seals Elijah's weary eyes;Again the food prepar'd of heaven is sent;Again the seraph rouses him, and bidsHim rise and eat, and for the road prepare;For far and lonely is the barren routOf his impending journey; for his courseIs order'd through the wilderness, and heMust bend his footsteps to the mount of God.Now forty days and forty nights are past,And view Elijah in the dreary caveOf Horeb's sacred mountain. Hark! the voiceOf the Eternal sounds amid the storm—"What dost thou here, Elijah? — why do IBehold thee wand'ring in the wilderness?""Because, O Lord, thy faithful servant hathBeen very jealous for thy holy nameFor the abandon'd sons of Jacob haveForsaken thee, their Maker, and have thrownDown thy most holy altars, and have bentThe knee to Baal, and with unhallow'd swordHave slain thy prophets; and even I aloneHave scap'd their fury, and they seek my life."But hush! again the voice of God resoundsAmid the echoes of the mountain wild:"Go forth, Elijah, stand upon the mount,—Even in the awful presence of thy God."The seer obeys; and lo! the Lord passed by,And a fierce tempest rag'd on Horeb's side,And brake the rocks, and rent the trembling hillsBut the Almighty was not in the storm.And now an earthquake shakes the groaning earth:Can this declare the presence of the just,The dreadful sovereign of the universe?No, nor in this Jehovah is confest.But see, a liquid flame spreads far and wide,Rolls o'er the rocky ground, and floats on air:O! can the high and holy one in thisBright, blazing torrent, flash on human ken?O no!—but hush! hark to that still, small voice,—How sweet its tones of mildness and of love!And now the prophet owns the voice divine!Not in the raging storm, nor in the dread,Devouring earthquake, nor in the fierce flame,The Almighty Majesty of Heav'n appears:No—but in mercy's soft and stilly voice,The great and glorious Godhead smiles on man.ELIJAH TAKEN TO HEAVEN.STILL on the prophets wander'd. As they walk'dThey spake of things celestial. The hourWhich was to snatch Elijah from the earthWas come, and his pure soul was wrapt in bliss,And holy expectation of the joys—His bright reward of glory—by the throneOf the Omniscient Majesty of heaven.O highly favour'd mortal!—if we dareTo call thee mortal—who undying gain'dTh' immortal pleasures of th' angelic world.Behold yon brilliant star, which shootsIts rapid course across the sapphire vault:How swift its progress to our nether world!'Tis now so near, it seems a cloud of gold.Near and more near it draws. What can it be,That glorious pageant from the realms above?Elijah, favour'd son of earth! 'tis thine—Thy car triumphal to thy home on high.Swift darts the blazing chariot to its goal;The fiery steeds of heav'n disdain the earth,Nor will they deign to tread its tainted soil;Cloud‐borne, it hangs in air;—an unseen pow'rConveys the prophet to his radiant seat,And whirlwinds waft him from Elisha's view.THE JEWISH CAPTIVES.WEARY and sad by Babel's streamsThe exiles of Judea rov'd,And wept o'er the departed scenesOf that dear land—the land they lov'd.Proud Babylon! thy fields were fair,Thy flow'rets crimson, azure, gold;Their sweets perfum'd the ambient air,Thy streams in living silver roll'd.But all these charms were lost on them,Or notic'd but to rouse their woe:The flow'r bloom'd idly on its stem,Unheeded purest waters flow.Their harps upon the willow trees,Which overhung the limpid wave,They useless hung, and to the breezeThe voice of sighs and sorrow gave.But when their spoilers call'd for joy,And bade them strike the harp again,To songs of bliss without alloy,—To Zion's sweet and holy strain,—How could they wake the silent stringWith trembling and unwilling hand?O, how the Lord's song could they singWithin a heathen, foreign land?"No," they exclaim'd, "when we no moreRemember Salem's ruin'd towers,Within our breast life's pulse is o'er,And the cold grave alone is ours."BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.PALE queen of night! thou silver crescent moon,That float'st in azure clouds 'mid fields of light!What was the wond'rous scene which thou survey'dst,From thy bright throne on high, that awful nightThe Babylonian empire sunk in dust?A lovely night it was—'mid eastern nightsOne deem'd most lovely—scarce a cloud obscur'dThe beauty of heav'n's calm refulgent arch;Or when a vapour pass'd, 'twas silv'ry, light,And floated o'er the sapphire, vision‐like,And then was lost in the immense expanseOf the pure sky.Far worshipp'd star of even!Thy golden lamp, and light‐surrounded car,Beam'd bright in space, and near the moon's fair orbRoll'd in a sea of splendour. Gem of heav'n!Say, didst thou glory in the rose‐crown'd crowds,Who, hast'ning to thy temple, fill'd thy hallsWith love‐devoted worshippers—O say!From thy bright sphere didst thou exult to seeThe joyous multitudes that bent to thee?Infatuated fools! they little thoughtThat night of guilty madness was their last:—They little thought the Persian hosts but stay'dTill, sunk in sleep and wine—an easy prey!They lay expos'd to the victorious bandsThat panted for the hour which was to giveThem and their fated monarchy to ruin.Secure they feasted—not a thought was theirsOf the impending danger frowning nigh,And soon to fall all‐dreadful on their heads.Belshazzar, impious king! tho' God had givenHis fav'rite people to thy father's sword,—How could'st thou, worm of earth! how could'st thou dareT' insult th' Almighty Majesty of Heav'n?Didst thou not know that for their sins they fell;That for their sins their God had given them o'erUnto thy father's power, and made them feelThe exile's miseries—the captive's woes—The throes of anguish which the slave must bear—The conquer'd slave, that serves a foreign lord?Vain man! didst thou imagine 'twas their GodWho yielded to proud Bab'lon's victor spear?No; the Almighty Ruler of the storm,The power that moveth in the whirlwind's blast—That bids the lightnings flash, the thunders roll—That awful pow'r makes bare his 'venging armAgainst the nations that provoke his wrath;And raiseth tyrant kings to be the scourgeWith which he punisheth the guilty landsThat tempt his justice, and his mercy scorn.He bids proud empires fall, and be no more,And raiseth others from the lowly dust;And now, even now—when thou, and all thy lords,Thy queen, and the fair minions of thy court,In oriental splendour crowd thy board;When the rich feast is spread, the wine is pour'd,And all is gaiety, and wanton mirth;When music from a thousand golden harps,Pours its enchantment on the thoughtless throng;—Even now his arm hangs o'er thee—great in might,And, terrible in justice, points at thee.The thunders of the Eternal lower above thee,Ready to burst in fury on thy head.Even while thy guilty hand that golden cup—The holy vessel of his temple!—lifts,Sparkling with wine, to thy polluted lips;His arm is rais'd to dash it from thy grasp,Ere lips impure have stain'd its sacred brim.Ah, see, it falls!—monarch! why tremblest thou?Why is thy gaze fix'd on the light which streamsIn rays of awful glory from yon wall?What can it be, that supernatural light?It is not the reflected glow which glaresFrom the high altars of th' Assyrian gods,Nor yet from yon bright chandelier which stands,With seven lamps crown'd—another holy spoilFrom the fallen temple of Jehovah's land:No, no! it is more wond'rous—brighter farThan all their beams concentred could reflectOn the pure polish of yon marble hall.The moon looks pale, the vesper star is blanch'dIn the unwonted blaze; the serpent writhes,In seeming agony, beneath its fires;Of Zion's candlestick the lights grow dim,And only give a sick, blue, livid glare.What can it be?It is the God of heaven—The God thou hast offended, child of dust!'Tis he hath given his angel charge to writeThy pending doom in characters of flame.See, see that hand!—'tis as the hand of man;But man—poor feeble man! man cannot read,Unless illum'd by heaven, these words of fire.Belshazzar, call thy magi,—thy wise men—Thy soothsayers—thy astrologers; call these—Perchance they can interpret yon strange tongue—Yon language of the deity; perchanceUnfold the secrets of the Eternal, andReveal the fate of Babylon's wond'ring king.In vain they come,—not theirs such mystic lore—They stand in strange astonishment, or sitIn stupid silence—poring o'er the pageOf some dark magic parchment;—vain their search!They must confess their ignorance—must ownYon burning prodigy beyond their powers.Now, terror‐stricken sov'reign! haste proclaimThy royal gifts and high rewards to himWho can decipher what thou dread'st to hear,And what thou well may'st dread. But see, the queenApproaches;—hark! she speaks, and speaks to thee:"O king, for ever live!—among the bandsOf princely captives from Judea broughtBy the great father's arms, was one fair youth,In whom the spirit of the living godsRemain'd in awful majesty, and fill'dHis mighty mind with knowledge far aboveThe sons of human race. This man thy sireMade prince o'er all the wise men of the east.Send now for him, and he will tell thee, king,What these far‐beaming characters import."Here ceas'd the fair. The willing nobles flyFor Daniel. Lonely on Euphrates' banksThe favour'd captive dwelt;—there, scorning courts,Their folly, and their noise, he serv'd his God,And pass'd his harmless life in prayer and praise.There Babylon's princes found the holy manIn rapt devotion, communing with heav'n.A sacred fervour beam'd o'er his pale face—His eyes were upward turn'd—his thoughts were fix'dOn other worlds, and events far remov'dFrom the dark present;—his mind's eye survey'dThe Persian monarch's triumph, and his reign:He saw the victor prince predicted once,Nam'd by Isaiah in his vision'd song,Smile on his country's exiles; he beheldTheir fetters broken, and their glad returnTo that sweet land, which now neglected lay,—Its fields uncultur'd, and its vines unpruned."God of my fathers!" he exclaim'd, "receiveThy servant's gratitude,—his hymn of praise."Then, falling prostrate on the ground, ador'dTh' omniscient power which rules the earth and sky.Thus was he found. "Hail, Daniel, hail!" they cried,"The king demands thy presence: omens strangeHave fill'd the astrium with signs of dread.Haste, Belteshazzar, and if thou declar'stThe import of those words the gods have trac'd,In awful characters of living fire,The king decrees a gorgeous robe, and chainOf gold to thee, and names thee third in powerThrough all the realms which own his regal sway.""His gifts be to himself," the seer returned,"Such toys of earth I only count as dross;—Yet I obey, and hasten to your Lord,That I may give before th' assembl'd state,Glory to Israel's God—the God I serve,The just, almighty, and all‐present One;'Tis he will give his servant power to read'The lightning‐graven lines of which you speak."Now see the prophet in the imperial hall;In sable robe he stands,—his reverend beard,Silver'd by years of grief, falls on his breast;His look is solemn, mournful, but compos'd—Alone compos'd amid the list'ning crowds—His arm is rais'd—he points to that bright signWhich scatters horror o'er the heathen throng.Mark how they press around him!—on each faceAnxiety and fear sit deep impress'd;Shudd'ring, the monarch listens to his doom;—A fainting princess clasps his knees, and fallsIn speechless agony upon the floor;—A lover, trembling for the life most dearTo his fond heart, grasps the fair hand of herWho clings to him;—forgetful of all else,He rushes to the prophet, and imploresThe sage to save, to shield his beauteous love.Lo, the inspir'd man of God now speaks!Hear the decrees of dread Omnipotence!"Belshazzar, hear the message of the GodThou hast provok'd by thy impietyTo hurl on thee his desolating wrath."Child of mortality! yon writing speaksTo thee in words of woe:—'Mene, mene;'God hath thy kingdom number'd and dissolv'd:'Tekel;'—and thou art weigh'd, and thou art foundLight as a feather in the scale of justice.Thy wide empire soon must be divided:God hath given it, and its regal glory,To the Medes and Persians, who surroundThy ponderous walls, and scorn thy gates of brass."Here ceas'd the prophet. The astonish'd kingBends in mute horror to his coming fate;But bids them clothe the sage of Judah's landIn all the princely gifts he had ordain'd.Oh, what a scene of anguish and dismayThat lately joyous royal hall displays!The board, array'd in eastern luxury,Is left a splendid monument to man,That tho' the feast is spread, the wine‐cup rais'd,—The lips may never taste its dainties;—no,Nor quaff the mirth‐inspiring draught;—to man,Nought but eternity and death are sure.Despair is deep impress'd on every face;Alarm and mis'ry glare in ev'ry eye:The throne is vacant—a Chaldean princeNo more may press its crimson seat, nor giveImperial lustre to its sinking pride.The lovely queen, all pale and fearful, kneels,Upon the ground, and casts a timid glanceTo yon portentous characters, which dartTheir rays, like arrows dipt in fire, on allThe woe‐struck crowds, that fly, and stop, and gaze.Alternately, then shudd'ring fall on earth,And prostrate call to their false gods for aidThey cannot give; for they must share the fateOf their deluded worshippers, and sinkIn the vast ruin which envelopes all.Proud Babylon! Queen of many nations!Where, where art thou?Lost, lost.What, what art thou?The nest of serpents, and the dismal denOf things impure,—where rav'ning beasts of preyHowl in dire concert, 'neath the sick'ning moon:Thy palaces, thy splendour sunk in dust;Thy glory turn'd to shame;—the prophet's voiceWhich spoke thy fall hath awfully been true.Where are thy hanging gardens?They are gone.Where Babel's tower, that threatened the skies?Where Bel's proud temple?They are fall'n—all gone,Nor left a wreck, to tell where once they stood.Daughter of Babylon! thy fate should teachThe empires of this world,—should cry aloud,"Children of clay! O think what I was once!What I am now! and what ye all must be!"ANGELS ANNOUNCE THE BIRTH OFCHRIST.AS shepherds, in Bethlehem's rural plains,Watch'd o'er their fleecy charge by the pale moon,They, stretch'd upon the grass, under the shadeOf sycamore and cedar, spake of him—The root and branch of Jesse's royal tree.They said th' expected time at length was comeWhen Judah was again to hail her king,And, longing for the blissful period, rais'dTheir supplicating voice in songs to heav'n."God of our fathers! God of Abraham!O listen to thy chosen people's prayers!Give us the promis'd Saviour—the kingWho is to free us from oppressive foes."But as their anthem rose in choral swell,Angelic music mingled with the hymn,And high above their heads, and all around,Celestial glory brightened the scene:An angel stood before them, on the ground:O'ercome with terror fell the sons of men;But with a voice as soft as summer showers,As sweet and fragrant as the breath of spring,When the young zephyrs woo the opening flow'rs,And shake the perfume from the blushing rose,The beauteous seraph spake: a smile divineGlow'd on his lovely cheek; his tresses wav'dIn golden ringlets on the ambient air;His radiant wings sparkl'd with all the huesOf the seven‐tinctur'd arch that paints the skies:"Fear not, ye sons of Abram's race, fear not—Good tidings of great joy I bring to you—And not to you alone—to all mankind:To you and them is born, in David's town,A Saviour, who is Christ the Lord of might—A Shepherd, who shall guide his chosen flock To flow'r‐enamell'd meads and shady groves.Go, seek the holy stranger; ye shall findThe virgin mother and the heav'nly babeLodg'd in a stable—in a manger laid."Here ceas'd the messenger of peace to man:The shepherds, re‐assur'd, stood gazing onThe glorious visitant: when, lo!—a trainOf heav'n's inhabitants appear'd enthron'dOn clouds of rosy hue, glowing with gold,And gem'd with sapphire, emerald, and beryl;—A light more dazzling far than of the sun,When, hung in middle heav'n, he darts his raysIn floods of splendour on the brighten'd world,Illumin'd Bethlehem's plains, and fully shew'dAngelic loveliness to mortal ken:Eternal youth smil'd on each cherub's face,Unmingl'd pleasure sparkl'd in their eyes,Crowns wreath'd with roses circled their brows,And robes of lightning flow'd around their forms;Celestial harmony thrill'd thro' the air;A thousand harps of gold, by seraphs struck,Rose in full swell upon the ear of night:"Glory to God," they sung, "good will to man,And peace on earth for ever: God hath givenHis son to live and die for sinful dust:Glory to God the Father, God the Son,And God the Spirit—Glory in the highest!" THE RAISING OF LAZARUS FROMTHE DEAD.HOW solemn is this silence!—not a soundIs heard, save the faint moaning of the breeze,And the low sob that bursts from speechless grief,Or the soft trembling sigh which swells the heart,When pity's gentle influence sways the soul.The scene around us is the field of graves,—The dead are slumb'ring here, and silence spreadsHer chilly wing to shroud the bed of death.Whose are those deep low sobs? whose are those sighs,That mingle with the whispers of the gale,And tell of sorrow for some friend now gone?Who are those crowds of mourners, and whose isThe lowly narrow house they weep around?It is the tomb of Lazarus, and thoseDeep sobs, that speak of woe, burst from the hearts,Of his bereaved sisters, and those sighs—The offspring of sweet pity!—heave the breastsOf sympathizing neighbours—who have comeTo soothe the anguish of the drooping pair.But who is he, conspicuous o'er the restFor dignity of mein, and look of kindAnd soft benevolence?—whose mild bright eyeIs rais'd in calm, confiding love to heav'n,Or gently bent compassionate on man?It is the Saviour of the human race—The holy Lamb of God—the lov'd of heav'n—The spotless Son of Man,—whose breast divineNo sinful passion, nor dark thought e'er stain'd.His chosen twelve are round him; and beholdThe weeping sisters kneeling at his feet:And strangers too are there—Jews who have comeTo comfort those that mourn, and share their woe.The Saviour sees their sorrow, and he feelsCompassion's tender tide o'erwhelm his soul;—For see, he weeps. Amazing proof of loveTo frail mortality! Lo! Jesus weeps!Weeps to behold the ravages of death—Weeps to behold the woes—the piercing woes—That rend the bosoms of the sons of earth:And deep within those bosoms' deepest core,Th' incarnate eye beholds each thought that lurksWithin its dark recesses; and the foul,The guilty murmurs of our rebel raceShroud in a cloud of tears its lucid beams.He weeps! the Jews behold the falling drops,And, wond'ring, bid each other mark his love."See how he loved him; and could not heWho hath with awful pow'r—even by a word—Pour'd light upon the eye‐balls of the blind,And given this glorious world unto their gaze—Say, could not he have caus'd that even this man,The tenant of that tomb, should not have died?"The great Redeemer reads their inmost thoughts:Again he weeps, then bids them roll the stoneFrom the dark cavern's mouth, where lay his friend.The stone is roll'd away; and now to heav'nThe Just One lifts his supplicating eyes:"Father," he cries, "I thank thee, O my God,That thou hast heard me; and I know that thouHearest me always: but for those who standAround me, I said so; that they may knowThat thou hast sent me, and I come from thee."The Jews gaze on him;—in his heav'nward eyeA glory more than mortal shines, and highCommanding majesty illumes his form;—Celestial beauty glows upon his check,And the soft lustre of the sunshine gildsHis amber ringlets with a radiant light."Lazarus, come forth," he cries; and lo! the deadObeys the powerful voice—which yet shall bidAll Adam's slumb'ring sons and daughters rise.The Jews start back, awe‐struck, and dumb with fear;—The chosen twelve exulting mark the powerOf their meek Lord;—the raptur'd sisters rushWith one quick cry of joy toward the tomb;—The lately dead, rous'd from his still, cold sleep,From his low bed comes forth, still fetter'd byThe ghastly vestments of the narrow house;And his first gaze instinctively is bentUpon the mild, benignant face of himWho stands alone—calm and collected, 'midThe strange emotions of th' impassion'd scene.BLIND BARTIMEUS RESTORED TOSIGHT.SAD was the sightless man: the glorious sunHad never dawn'd to glad his rayless eyes;He ne'er had seen that beauteous orb of dayBrighten the sapphire concave of the sky,And throw a livelier green athwart the mead,Or pour a flood of silver o'er the stream:No—but alas! oft as he heard them tellOf bright unclouded sun, or clear blue sky,Or the gay em'rald tincture of the mead,Or varied scenery of hill and dale—The forest's deeply pleasing, solemn gloom—The little groves that clothe the wooded vales,Or the sweet flowers that spangle nature's breast,Or the stern grandeur which sublimely reignsO'er the lone desert; or the mountain hoar,With rugged rocks; or where the ocean spreadsIts dark blue world of wonders to the sky;—Or when they spake of nature's simpler charms—The mountain streamlet, or the limpid waveOf some pure river, o'er whose silver tideEmbow'ring woodlands threw a pleasing shade;—The darken'd one would sigh—a burning tearWould tremble on his cheek, and he would groanIn mental wretchedness, as the sad thoughtDarted across his brain: "These, these alas!Must never glad my darken'd, sightless eyes:Unhappy I must wander my lone way,Thro' life's long pilgrimage, and glean with tearsA scanty pittance from the niggard handOf man's cold charity. Alas! for meNo sun looks glorious from his throne on high—No landscape smiles, no summer day looks fair."But when he heard of Jesus—when he heardHis word alone could call from the dark tombIts cold inhabitant; and when he heardThat those who once were strangers like himselfTo light, and the gay beauties of the world,Now saw, and joy'd—transported with their change;O how the blind man's heart with rapture throbb'd!O how his sightless eyes were turn'd to heav'n,In ardent supplication that his GodWould send the wond'rous prophet to his aid!Poor Bartimeus! thou art dark and sad,—Hard‐hearted man heeds little for thy plaint;But the Almighty hears it: thou art set,Begging by the way side—the anxious wish,Still highest in thy breast, that David's son,Supreme in mercy, might be sent to thee.Thou startest from thy seat! say, what is that—That distant sound which strikes thy list'ning ear?'Tis like the tread of coming, countless feet;'Tis like the hum of many voices blentIn glad acclaim, to hail some friend of man.Thy anxious heart beats high: "O were it he!"Is still thy oft, and oft repeated cry.The crowd is gathering round, and thou hast ask'd,In trembling expectation,—"What may meanTh' approaching multitude?" and many a voiceReplies, " 'Tis Jesus." Welcome, welcome sound!The blind man falls, kneeling and suppliant,On the ground, and calls in breathless ardour,"Jesus, O son of David! pity me."Yes, Bartimeus, 'tis in vain they bidThee cease thy supplications; still the moreThou call'st, "Have mercy, David's son, on me."And he hath heard thee. Hark! the gentle voice,Compassionate, which calls thee to his side,And asks, benignant, "What thy suit may be?""Lord, that I may receive my sight," is thyDelighted answer; and the son of God,Smiling in pity on the child of man,Replies, in tones of mildness and of love,"As is thy faith, so be it unto thee."Rejoice, O son of Timeus! for whatA flood of glory bursts upon thy view!The golden light of day is bright on thee,—Hills, vales, and meadows smile around, and theBlue sky stretches its placid arch above,Whilst the fair sun, now first beheld, flames o'erThe varied landscape, in a sea of light.But hills, nor vales, nor meads, nor glorious sun,Tho' now but first beheld can draw thy gazeFrom the mild face of him who gave them toThy gladden'd eyes;—to thee he stands supremeIn loveliness, unpeer'd by all around.Meekly the Saviour stands: he seems to shareThe bliss which he hath given; he smiles uponThee, Bartimeus, with celestial love,And thou, like those his mercy saves from woes,And blindness of a darker nature, hang'stUpon his footsteps, and still follow'st whereHis hand directs thee thro' life's thorny way.CHRIST'S TRIUMPHAL ENTRY INTOJERUSALEM.DAUGHTER of Zion, shout! behold thy King,All meek and lowly, seated on an ass.Jerusalem! thy sov'reign seeks thy towers—His bosom fill'd with pitying love for thee—And not for thee alone—for all mankind:And tho' the hour approaches when he mustHang on the cross,—a bleeding sacrificeFor the impure—himself without a stain!Yet he looks down on all the fallen raceWith eyes that, beaming mercy, shed their rays—Beneficent, compassionate, and kind.Shout, sons of Adam!—shout! he comes, he comes!The promis'd Saviour comes—no regal pompBespeaks the long‐expected, long‐desir'dOffspring of David—both his son and Lord.Tho' angels hail'd him, and bright from the skyDescending, sung the heavenly infant's birth,Glory to God, and peace and love to man,Yet man, the ingrate!—man, for whom he cameTo spend his days in pain—his nights in tears—His life in sorrow; and at length to die—O wond'rous love!—to die that he might live;Hear it, with indignation, highest heaven!Tremble, and groan with horror, O thou earth!Wonder, ye ministers of the Most High!Blush, children of the clay! and in the dustHide, hide your guilty faces from the day!Man—rebel man alone, knew not his Lord:Earth's high ones slighted him—few, very few,Follow'd the houseless Saviour of the world,—And these were but its humblest,—yet he still—Still labour'd on amongst them—still he gaveHealth to the sick, sight to the blind, and lifeTo many the grim king had made his prey.Children of Salem! your king comes—at lengthO let your stony hearts confess his pow'r!Pour forth to meet him—hail the Prince of Peace!And with your garments strew Immanuel's way.They come, they come!—see, see the rushing crowds!Hark, how they shout—"Zion, behold thy king!"Lo! the triumphal palms, how high they wave!Green branches strew his path; and children runAnd scatter fragrant roses on the ground.He smiles on them—his placid face now shinesIn all its heavenly beauty, and his eyeIs brighten'd with a beam of sacred joy;—His triumph is begun o'er sin and hell:Legions of angels, by all else unseen,Throng round him, and the hallelujah join;—The sons of darkness fly, and the arch‐fiendAt distance low'rs, and writhes beneath his doom.Hark, hark the glad hosannah—how it swells!Old men, and maids, and infants join the song:"Hosannah! blessed be the King who comesIn the all‐glorious name of the Most High:Hail, son of David! glory to the Lord,And peace to man—Hosannah in the highest!"David, our father, blessed is thy throne;Thy kingdom bless'd, that is to know no end!—Bless'd—for it is establish'd in the name,The great name of the Lord. Hosannah still!Glory to God: Hosannah in the highest!"The Saviour smiles; but yet he smiles through tears:Alas! he knows those voices which now shout—"Hosannah to the chief of David's line;"Alas! he knows those voices soon will cry—"On us, and on our offspring, be his blood."His eyes o'erflow with grief. Zion, he seesThe Roman eagles hov'ring o'er thy walls:He sees thy temple one vast sheet of flame;Thy palaces, thy tow'rs—all wrapt in fire;Thy children butcher'd, and thy glory gone.He weeps not for himself, he weeps for thee;He mourns thy awful doom: hark! he lamentsThy coming fate—"Jerusalem!" he cries;"Thou who hast slain the prophets—O that thou,In this thy day of visitation, knew'stThe things which most belong unto thy peace:But they are hid, involv'd in darkness, fromThy sight, and thou abandon'd to thy fate!For soon the dreadful period must arrive,When thy fierce foes, encompassing thy walls,Shall cast a trench around thee, and incloseThee in with hostile mounds on ev'ry side,And lay thee even with the ground; and stretchThy children pale in death amid thy flames."Of all thy splendid temple, not one stoneShall be left on another—burnt, and raz'dTo the foundation;—for thou hast not knownThis thy last hour of mercy;—therefore thou,Forsaken of thy God—art left to ruin."CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN.STARS, luminaries, suns of other worlds!And thou fair moon, chaste empress of the night!Say, did ye hide your heads in clouds and gloom,That night the Saviour of the human raceStrove, in Gethsemane, with death and hell?O awful night! O sight of woe and dread!When he, the pure, the spotless Lamb of God,Pour'd forth his soul in agonizing groans, And bore the sins of a lost, guilty world.O wond'rous condescension! love divine!Did he, the God of mercy, bleed for man?O goodness, infinite! even angels bent,Astonish'd, from th' empyrean, and survey'dThe dreadful scene, and trembl'd, and ador'd.When Adam fell, and the first sinner's lifeStern justice claim'd—Son of the highest! thenThy mercy interpos'd, and sued to save:"Father! I've found a ransom." Highest heavenHad heard the gracious promise:—silence reign'dAround th' eternal throne, till angels brokeThe awful stillness, by loud shouts of joy.Great surety of th' undone—the beggar'd debtors,Art thou come to pay the mighty sum, andBreak the chains which bind the slaves of Satan?Saviour of mankind! prostrate on the turfThou ly'st,—in agony unknown before:Thy bosom heaves with sighs, thine eyes o'erflowWith tears of anguish,—on thy pallid browLarge drops of sweat appear;—but torture ne'erFrom mortal forehead forc'd such drops of woe.Angels behold that crimson sweat, and gazeIn trembling wonder at the dreadful sight,And listen to the groans which rend the heartOf God's own son, and shudder at the crimesWhich forc'd heaven's justice to a deed so stern,—That, for the guilty, the most pure must bleed,Or mercy still must mourn o'er fallen man.But hark these plaintive accents Jesus speaks,—"Father, this bitter cup!—Oh! can it pass?No; I must drink it—drink it to the dregs,—And not my will,—but thine, my God, be done!"THE CRUCIFIXION.DEEP darkness shrouds the world: the sun is lostIn the expanse of heav'n—he hides his faceEven in his noontide glory—veils in cloudsHis golden beams,—as if he sought to flyA scene of horror, and a guilty world.An earthquake shakes the ground; the rocks are rent;The dead start from their graves; and Salem seesThe ransom'd tenants of the dust arise;The mystic veil of the most holy placeIs rent in twain;—the priest, even as he bendsBefore the altar, drops the censer fromHis palsied hand, as, trembling, he beholdsTh' awful presage, that his ritual nowHas gain'd its solemn, and its final close;For now upon an holier altar bleeds—The last, best sacrifice for fallen man:And what a sacrifice! the heav'ns are dumbWith horror at the scene, and tenfold nightIn sable curtains wraps the azure sky.But, hark that voice of agony which comesIn piercing anguish from the victim's soul!"My God! my God! Oh why, why hast thou thusForsaken me?"—Whose is that cry of woe?Listen, ye angels—hear ye courts of heaven—It bursts in suffering from the Son of God!Amazing cry! Fall, guilty, rebel man,Fall prostrate in the dust; it is for theeThe spotless Lamb of God thus groans and dies.Hard‐hearted Jews! ye wretches among whomThe holy Jesus spent his blameless life!Ye were his countrymen;—ye saw him still,Beneficent and kind, unwearying toilFor you and for your children: Now he pour'dLight on the sightless eyeballs of the blind,And now, in awful majesty, he drivesThe sons of darkness from their seat in man:He speaks—the leprous man is clean once more;The palsied trembler walks erect and firm:The feeble fever'd wretch, whose burning bloodBoils thro' his throbbing veins,—whose languid eyeIs dim and ghastly with approaching death,—Even he revives, and rosy health once moreGlows in full lustre on his alter'd cheek;And, stranger still, the dead, even those who sleptWithin the cold, dark precincts of the tomb,—Even they have heard his voice: yes, they have rous'dThem from their leaden slumbers, and have brokeThe icy fetters of the ghastly king,And sprung to life at his almighty word:—Monsters! ye saw all this, and yet ye dar'dCondemn and crucify that glorious one—And yet ye dar'd call down upon your heads,And on the heads even of your unborn babes,The guiltless blood your impious fury shed—"On us and on our offspring be his blood."Unhallow'd prayer! and oh, how fully hasThat prayer been heard, and answer'd by just heav'n! On you and on your offspring, fated ones!The wrath of heav'n hath pour'd its bitterest cup. What is your nation now? An exil'd race, Driven from their once sweet land, and forc'd to roam—Wand'rers thro' all the kingdoms of the world.Where is your temple now—that sacred pile—The pride, the glory of fallen Jacob's land?Raz'd to the ground, even by a heathen's hand,Whilst lost Jerus'lem blazed one ruin round.But turn, my soul—turn thou from them, and fromThe desolation of fair Canaan's land;Turn thou to where th' expiring Saviour hangs,And buys the world's redemption with his blood.'Tis awful silence—even his murd'rers standAmid the gloom, and, shuddering, ask their heartsIf the meek sufferer is not more than man.Blest Lamb of God! thy racking pains have parch'dThy burning lips; and now thou call'st, "I thirst."What is it that they give thee? Mingled gall,Hyssop, and vinegar—the final dropOf bitterness in thy full cup of woe.'Tis raised to thy lips; thou call'st aloud," 'Tis finish'd." Yes, just one, thy woes are o'er, And mankind's great redemption is complete!The vanquish'd pow'rs of hell, o'erthrown, aghast,From thy dread scene of suffering triumph fly,And seek the caverns of their deepest hell,Whilst thy victorious soul triumphant smiles.Deep groans the earth—convulsions shake the ground,And nature mourns, dismay'd, around her Lord;And distant heathens, who behold the gloomThat spreads o'er all her darkened empire, cry,"Either the world is hast'ning to its close,Or else the God of nature now sustainsSufferings which none but deity could bear."And even the vet'ran warrior who commandsThe Roman band, station'd to guard the cross,Starts when he hears the dying victim's voice—Unchang'd, unfault'ring 'mid the throes of death,And, struck with wonder and with terror, cries,"This surely was a righteous man;—most sureThis was, this must have been the Son of God."The very wretches who so lately gaveTheir voices to that imprecation dire,"His blood be on us, and our children's heads,"In bitter penitence now smite their breastsIn unavailing anguish,—wailing o'erA deed so fraught with frenzy and with crime.THE RESURRECTION OF CHRIST.'TIS now the twilight dawn of the third mornSince the Redeemer slumber'd in the dust:The Roman soldiers watch around the gateOf his dark sepulchre—a pond'rous rockFrom human footstep bars the sacred cave:The Saviour sleeps within. O come with meAnd view the Holy One!—All pale he liesOn earth's cold lap; but, even amid the gloomOf death which hovers o'er him, mark the meek,The placid smile his marble features wear,—As if his lips in death's last pangs had wornA glow of heav'nly triumph, as he cried,"Tis finished,"—and bow'd, and died for man.O my Redeemer, prostrate in the dust—As guilty creatures ought—let me beholdThis dread, stupendous miracle of love:Immortal deity—as mortal laidIn frail mortality's cold icy band—The victim to eternal justice given—Eternal mercy's sacrifice for man.But mark that smile which slumbers on his cheek,—As sleeps the watery sunbeam on the breastOf waveless lake, in an autumnal morn—Lifeless and chill. Mark! now it 'gins to breakIn lucid radiance cross his bright'ning face;And now it glows—ah! how unlike that ray,Wat'ry and cold, it erst in sadness wore!It glows in all the splendid lustre ofThe noontide glance the summer sunbeam shedsIn sparkling glory on the dancing stream.An earthquake shakes the hallow'd house of death;Angels descend upon the lightning's wing—And nature thunders with triumphant voice.Imperial Rome's proud guard, forgetfulOf the haughty terror of their warlike name,And trembling with an unknown horror, fall—Pale, breathless, to the ground—whilst he who layIn death's dire vestments, wakes amid the shoutsOf hailing seraphim, who proudly nameMESSIAS victor over death and hell.THE ASCENSION OF CHRIST.PURE was the azure of the lovely sky;Transcendent splendour blaz'd around the carOf the bright lamp of day: em'rald the hueOf sacred Olivet; and beauty glow'dIn virgin loveliness on every flow'rThat gem'd its mountain side—and Sharon's roseWith gayer colour bloom'd: the lily fair,Pride of the valley, breath'd more fragrant sweets,When on the green side of the favour'd hillTh' immortal Saviour of our ransom'd raceStood, 'mid his little band—as father standsAmid his children, ere to some far landHe bends his course, full sure he will return:He says farewell—but, as he bids adieu,He cheers their drooping hearts with gladd'ning smile,And sweet assurance of his homeward speed:So stood Immanuel; as he rais'd his handsTo bless his chosen, smiles of heav'nly lovePlay'd in celestial, glory o'er his face;Yet not on them alone the Saviour smil'd:His eye omniscient view'd the wide‐spread world—Its varied nations, and its num'rous tribes: He saw earth's utmost bounds—he saw the islesOf the blue sea, rejoicing, hail his name:And thee, my native island! distant farFrom flowery Canaan's then more favour'd land;He saw thee—proudest island of the deep! He saw thee—but he saw thee lie in night—The sternest superstition's willing slave; Yet he,—before whose piercing, awful ken The past, the present, and the future lieExpos'd and open,—saw thy warlike sons Forsake their idol gods, and kneel to him:He saw thy mountains bloom, thy deserts smile,With the fair coming harvest of his power:He heard thy valleys ring with songs of praise;Thy wild rocks echo back the holy hymn.O yes, victorious Saviour, thou beheld'stThy crown of recompense, and didst rejoice:Thou saw'st the glorious harvest, and didst sendThy willing labourers to the plenteous fields:Thou bad'st them go—but, with the high command,Thou also gav'st the promise of thine aid:"Go, my apostles—o'er the nations wideDiffuse my gospel; teach the sons of menThe open'd track to heav'n: go and baptizeThe soul that gives assurance of its faith:Go, my belov'd, my chosen ones!—and lo!I, even I, am with you to the end."They heard the gracious mandate, and they rais'dTheir joy‐bright eyes to him from whom it flow'd;But as they gaz'd upon their glorious Lord,They saw a lum'nous cloud, descending, floatAbove his sacred head—radiant it seem'd,As throne imperial of the heav'n of heav'ns;More bright than purest gold—more brilliant farThan rock of diamond glitt'ring in the sun;More dazzling than the keenest lustre ofThe mid‐day sun, meridian hung on high:Wond'ring they gaz'd, and wond'ring saw their LordRising above this world's sin‐tainted soil,—And that bright cloud descend to bear him king,Triumphant and victorious, to his throne.THE CONCLUSION.SILENT is now my harp—my feeble handNo more essays to strike its quiv'ring string;Abash'd at my temerity, I standAnd view the eagle‐height my soul aspir'd.Led by the muse of Zion, I have soughtTo gather flow'rets in celestial fields,And throw my garland on my Saviour's cross.Inspir'd with deepest awe, with panting heartI've stretch'd my vent'rous wing, to snatch a wreath(Perchance of fading flowers), unworthy ofThat glorious altar—holy love would crown.Prompted by this, my daring hand has struckThe Harp of Salem in Immanuel's praise;But ah! that hand, inferior to the task,Hath swept the warbling chords with timid touch:My trembling voice, even as I rais'd the song,In conscious weakness, fault'ring, hath confess'dIts powers unequal to the mighty lay;And Salem's ancient harp,—which erst obey'dThe thrilling numbers of the shepherd king,And scatter'd o'er the world th' inspired songs Of heav'n‐wrapt sages in prophetic fire,Indignant at the feeble touch, which nowWould wake again its bold seraphic tones,—Is silent, and the heav'nly muse which ledMy wing to dare the bright ethereal way,Must leave me, mourning as she mounts on high,That I must lag behind, nor soar with herAmid the stars, and glories of the sky.But yet the sweet celestial, as she quitsHer drooping mortal charge, with angel smileWhispers in soothing accents to my soul—"Daughter of Adam! tho' thy lowly songIs all unworthy of its awful theme,And tho' these earthly flow'rs but form a wreathOf fading honours for thy Saviour's cross,Yet when a few short years have roll'd away,And summer scatters sunbeams on the spotWhere sleeps thy mortal frame, th' immortal partShall mount unfetter'd by its chains of clay,And catching tones of rapture from the harpsOf seraphim around th' eternal throne,Shall strike thy golden lyre, and join the choirOf tuneful voices in the realms of day:There, there shalt thou resume the glorious lay—No more unworthy of the wond'rous theme:There, in those fields of never‐dying flow'rs,Thy ransom'd soul shall twine a wreath of joy,And in the bright, the amaranthine bowersOf sweet celestial blessedness, shalt hangTh' unwith'ring garland of eternal praise.REFLECTIVE PIECES.Reflective Pieces.STANZAS ADDRESSED TO MAN.CHILD of the dust! poor heir of clay!How chequer'd is thy dubious way,In this sad vale of tears!To‐day thou lift'st a sanguine eyeUnto a pure, an azure sky,And nought but bliss appears:To‐morrow all is wrapt in gloom,And anguish points thee to the tomb,As mis'ry's only rest,Where she may sleep—her sorrows o'er,And dream of guilt and pain no more,In earth's cold, peaceful breast.Victim and dupe of hopes and fears,As vain as are thy smiles and tears,How wond'rous is thy lot!The prey of death—thou liest in dust,The memory of thy being lost,—Forgetting and forgot.The daisy decks thy covering sod,The rank grass whistles o'er the clodWhich haps thy mould'ring breast;Loathsome to view, thou'rt hid from sight,Thy narrow house involv'd in night,And lone thy place of rest.No comrade but the hideous worm,That riots on thine alter'd form,And feasts and fattens there;"How valu'd once, avails thee not,"—How lovely, alters not thy lot,Nor face however fair.All share alike the common fate;Corruption spareth not the great,Nor yields to beauty's sway;The lilies wither—roses die—And dimm'd is the most brilliant eye,And all their charms decay.But tho' thou art the child of earth,And but to die received'st thy birth,Thou art immortal too;The power that form'd thee of the clay,Form'd thee to taste eternal day,And joys for ever new;And made this varying scene the path,Through toils and suff'rings, life and death—Through gleams of woe and bliss—To realms where joy for ever reigns—Where angels crowd the glorious plains,And all is happiness.Grief there is lost amid the raysOf glory, streaming from the bla