XXXVII.

DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM.

FALLEN is thy throne, O Israel!-
Silence is on thy plains,-
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,-
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
On Etham's barren shore?

That fire from heaven which led thee
Now lights thy path no more!

Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem!
Once she was all thy own:
Her love thy fairest heritage,
Her power thy glory's throne.
Till evil came and blighted

Thy long-loved olive tree;
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than thee.

Then sunk the star of Solyma,
Then pass'd her glory's day,
Like heath that in the wilderness
The wild wind whirls away.

Silent and waste her bowers,

Where once the mighty trod; And sunk those guilty towers Where Baal reign'd as God.

Go," said the Lord, "ye conquerors! Steep in her blood your swords; And raze to earth her battlements, For they are not the Lord's: Tell Zion's mournful daughter, O'er kindred bones she 'll tread; And Hinnom's hall of slaughter Shall hide but half her dead."

But soon shall other pictured scenes
In brighter vision rise,

When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine
On all her mourner's eyes;

And on her mountains beauteous stand

The messengers of peace :

"Salvation by the Lord's right hand!” They shout and never cease.

XXXVIII.

THE MOSS IN THE DESERT.

Ан! lovely flower, what care, what power,
In thy fair structure are display'd
By Him who rear'd thee to this hour
Within the forest's lonely shade!

Thy tender stalk, and fibres fine,
Here find a shelter from the storm;
Perhaps no human eyes but mine
E'er gazed upon thy lovely form.

The dewdrop glistens on thy leaf,

As if thou seem'dst to shed a tear-
As if thou knew'st my tale of grief-—
Felt all my sufferings severe !

But ah! thou know'st not my distress
In danger here from beasts of prey,
And robb'd of all I did possess,

By men more fierce by far than they.

Nor canst thou ease my burden'd sigh,
Nor cool the fever at my heart,
Though to the zephyrs passing by

Thou dost thy balmy sweets impart.

Yet He that form'd thee, little plant,
And bade thee flourish in this place,
Who sees and feels my every want,

Can still support me by His grace.

Oft has His arm, all strong to save,
Protected my defenceless head
From ills I never could perceive,

Nor could my

feeble hand have stay'd.

Then shall I still pursue my way

O'er this wild desert's sun-burnt soil, To where the ocean's swelling spray Washes my long'd-for native isle.

XXXIX.

THE EVENING WALK.

How sweet the calm of this sequester'd shore,
Where ebbing waters musically roll;

And solitude and silent eve restore
The philosophic temper of the soul!

The sighing gale, whose murmurs lull to rest
The busy tumult of declining day,

To sympathetic quiet soothes the breast,
And ev'ry wild emotion drives away.

Farewell the objects of diurnal care,

Your task be ended with the setting sun; Let all be undisturb'd vacation here,

While o'er yon wave ascends the peaceful moon.

What beauteous visions o'er the soften'd heart, In this still moment, all their charms diffuse; Serener joys and brighter hopes impart,

And cheer the soul with more than mortal views!

Here faithful mem'ry wakens all her powers,
She bids her fair ideal forms ascend,

And quick to ev'ry gladden'd thought restores
The social virtue and the absent friend.

Come, Marianne, come, and with me share
The sober pleasures of this solemn scene;
While no rude tempest clouds the ruffled air,
But all, like thee, is smiling and serene.