LET US DEPART.

It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previously to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, "Let us depart hence."

NIGHT hung on Salem's towers,
And a brooding hush profound
Lay where the Roman eagle shone,
High o'er the tents around.

The tents that rose by thousands,
In the moonlight glimmering pale;
Like white waves of a frozen sea,
Filling an Alpine vale.

And the temple's massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,
In peace, as if the Holy One
Yet watch'd his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard
In that old fane's deepest heart,

As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the
"Let us depart!"

Within the fated city

E'en then fierce discord raved,

cry,

Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword

Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told Of the bloody vintage nigh.

Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host,

Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard
In the temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
"Let us depart!"

But within the fated city

There was revelry that night; The wine-cup and the timbrel note, And the blaze of banquet light.

The footsteps of the dancer

Went bounding through the hall, And the music of the dulcimer

Summon'd to festival.

While the clash of brother weapons
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates
Lay down in their despair.

And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple's thrilling heart,

As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"

ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS.

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.1

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky,
Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe,
And by the weight of mortal agony

Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow,
My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain
Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.

I look'd once more, and, as the virtue shed
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray
Of victory from thy mien! and round thy head,
The halo, melting spirit-like away,
Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born,
To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.

And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed, in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming, With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency; Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil'd shrine, About the Form, so mournfully divine!

1This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Merrion Square, Dublin.

Oh! let thine image, as e'en then it rose,
Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear,
Making itself a temple of repose,

Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!
A holy place, where through all storms may lie
One living beam of day-spring from on high.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

Could we but keep our spirits to that height,
We might be happy: but this clay will sink

Its spark immortal.

Byron.

RETURN, my thoughts, come home!

Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep? And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'ersweep, As birds the ocean foam?

Swifter than shooting star Swifter than glances of the northern light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime,

Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams,
And reeds are whispering of heroic theme,
By temples of old time:

Through the north's ancient halls,

Where banners thrill'd of yore, where harp-strings rung, But grass waves now o'er those that fought and sung — Hearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim,

Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood, And sometimes on the haunted solitude

Rises the pilgrim's hymn:

Or where some fountain lies,

With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming! There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming Of man's lost paradise!

Return, my thoughts, return!

Cares wait your presence in life's daily track,
And voices, not of music, call you back-
Harsh voices, cold and stern!

Oh! no, return ye not!

Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be!
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free
O'er many a haunted spot.

Go, seek the martyr's grave,

'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast; Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past, Follow the wise and brave!

Go, visit cell and shrine!

Where woman hath endured!-through wrong,

through scorn,

Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne

By promptings more divine!

Go, shoot the gulf of death!

Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find, Where the storm sends no breath!