Assert not the proud privilege thou wouldst give them;
For if they did, Heaven's vaults would ring so loudly
With imprecations 'gainst the righteous Simon,
That they would pluck by force a plague upon us,
To which the Roman, and the wasting famine,
Were soft and healing mercies.
Liar and slave! There is no rich libation to the All-Just So welcome as the blood of renegades And traitors
Oh! I dare not listen longer! The big drops stand upon his brow; his voice Is faint and fails, and there's no food at home. The night is dark-I'll go once more, or perish. [Departs unperceived.
What, John of Galilee! because my voice
Is hoarse with speaking of thy crimes, dost scoff,
And wag thy head at me, and answer laughter?
Now, if thy veins run not pure gall, I'll broach
Their tide, and prove if all my creed be false;
If traitors' reeking blood smell not to heaven
Like a sweet sacrifice.
Is bound to th' horns of th' altar! Strike, I say,
Just Simon! valiant John! once more I dare
To cast myself between you, the High-Priest,
Who by his holy office calls on you
To throw aside your trivial private wrongs,
And vindicate offence more rank and monstrous.
Avenge your God! and then avenge yourselves!
The Temple is polluted-Israel's Lord
Mock'd in his presence. Prayers even thence have
Prayers from the jealous holy Sanctuary,
Even to the Crucified Man our fathers slew.
The Crucified! the Man of Nazareth!
This morn, as wont, our maidens had gone up
To chant their suppliant hymn; and they had raised
The song that Israel on the Red Sea shore
Took up triumphant; and they closed the strain,
That, like th' Egyptian and his car-borne host,
The billows of Heaven's wrath might overwhelm
The Gentile foe, and so preserve Jerusalem;
When at the close and fall a single voice
Linger'd upon the note, with, "Be it done
Through Jesus Christ, thine only Son."
My spirit shrank within me; horror-struck,
I listen'd; all was silence! Then again
I look'd upon the veiled damsels, all
With one accord took up the swelling strain
To him that triumph'd gloriously. I turn'd
To the Ark and Mercy Seat, and then again
I heard that single, soft, melodious voice,
"Lord of Mercies, be it done,
Through Jesus Christ, thine only Son."
Here, then, assembled Lords of Israel,
Whoever be the victim, I demand her;
Your wisdom must detect, your justice wreak
Fit punishment upon the accursed sacrilege.
SALONE (apart.)
Miriam! Miriam! Ha!-She's fled.-Guilt! Guilt
Prophetic of the damning accusation
It doth deserve! Apostate! 'twere a sin
Against Jerusalem and Heaven to spare thee!
I do commend you, brethren, for your silence! I see the abhorrence labouring in your hearts, Too deep and too infuriate for words.
Now, if it were my child, my Sarah's child,
The child that she died blessing, I'd not sleep
Till the stones crush her. Yea, thus, thus I'd grasp,
And hurl destruction on her guilty head.
Here, John, I pledge mine hand to thee, till vengeance
Seize on the false and insolent blasphemer.
(SALONE, half unveiled, rushing forward, stops irresolutely.)
Their eyes oppress me-my heart chokes my voice-
And my lips cling together-Oh! my mother,
Upon thy death-bed didst thou not beseech us
To love each other!
Brave Amariah, son of John! Salone,
Daughter of Simon! thus I join their hands;
And thus I bless the wedded and the beautiful!
And thus I bind the Captains of Jerusalem
In the strong bonds of unity and peace.-
And where is now the wine for the bridegroom's rosy cup? (16)
And the tabret and the harp for the chamber of the bride?
Lo! bright as burnish'd gold the lamps are sparkling up, And the odours of the incense are breathing far and wide;
And the maidens' feet are glancing in the virgins' wedding train;
And the sad streets of Salem are alive with joy again!
Long live Salone! Long live Amariah!
Am I awake?-how came I here unveil'd Among the bold and glaring eyes of men?
Long live Salone! Long live Amariah!
Now lead on the Bridal.
Blow trumpets! shout, exulting Israel!
Shout Amariah! shout again Salone!
Shout louder yet, the Bridegroom and the Bride!
Rejoice, O Zion, now on all thy hills;
He speaks from Heaven-accept'st thou, John of City of David, through thy streets rejoice!
From earth or heaven, I care not
Oh! rather let me ask, What says the maid? Oh! raven-hair'd Salone, Why dost thou crowd thy jealous veil around thee? Look on me freely; beauteous in thy freedom; As when this morn I saw thee, on our walls, Thy hair cast back, and bare thy marble brow To the bright wooing of the enamour'd sun: They were my banner, Beauty, those dark locks; And in the battle 't was my pride, my strength, To think that eyes like thine were gazing on me.
Oh no, thou saw'st me not!-Oh. Amariah!
What Prophets speak must be fulfill'd. "T were vain
T'oppose at once the will of Heaven-and thee.
Now, if there be enough of generous food, A cup of wine in all the wasted city, We'll have a jocund revel.
I have a question for thy secret ear.
Fountain of Siloe-Night-An approaching Storm.
He is not here! and yet he might have known
That the cold gloom of the tempestuous skies
Could never change a faithful heart like mine.
He might have known me not a maid to love
Under the melting moonlight, and soft stars,
And to fall off in darkness and in storm.
Ah! seal'd for ever be my slanderous lips!
Alas! it is the bitterest pang of misery
That it will force from us unworthy doubts
Of the most tried and true. Oh, Javan, Javan!
It was but now that with presumptuous heart
I did repine against the all-gracious heavens,
That wrapt me round in charitable darkness,
Because my erring feet had well-nigh miss'd
Their known familiar path.
A white and spirit-like gleaming-It must be !
I see her not, yet feel that it is Miriam,
By the indistinct and dimly visible grace
That haunts her motions; by her tread, that falls
Trembling and soft like moonlight on the earth.
Thou man, whose eyes are purged from earthly film, What dost thou here? now-now? where every mo
Seest thou no further down the tide of time?
Beyond this bridal nothing?-Answer me!
For it should seem this designated union
Of two so noble, this conspiring blood
The soldiers prowl, and meeting sentinels Challenge each other? I have watch'd for thee As prisoners for the hour of their deliverance;
Yet did I pray, love! that thou mightst not come,
Even that thou mightst be faithless to thy vows,
Rather than meet this peril-Miriam,
Does Javan ask me why? Because I saw my father pine with hungerBecause I never hope to come again.
Too true! this night, this fatal night, if Heaven
Strike not their conquering host, the foe achieves
His tardy victory. Round the shatter'd walls
There is the smother'd hum of preparation.
With stealthy footsteps, and with muffled arms,
Along the trenches, round the lowering engines,
I saw them gathering: men stood whispering men,
As though revealing some portentous secret;
At every sound cried, Hist! and look'd reproachfully
Upon each other. Now and then a light
From some far part of the encircling camp
To him untimely who is fit to die:
The less of this cold world, the more of heaven;
The briefer life, the earlier immortality.
But every moment to the man of guilt
And bloodshed, one like-ah me! like my father,
Each instant rescued from the grasp of death,
May be a blessed chosen opportunity
For the everlasting mercy-Think what 't is
For time's minutest period to delay
An infidel's death, a murderer's-
If I were dying, I would have thee go-
Oh! thou inspher'd, unearthly loveliness!
Danger may gather round thee, like the clouds
Round one of heaven's pure stars, thou'lt hold within
Thy course unsullied.
This is worse than all! Oh! mock not thus with wild extravagant praise
Breaks suddenly out, and then is quench'd as sud- A very weak and most unworthy girl.
The forced unnatural quiet, that pervades
Those myriads of arm'd and sleepless warriors,
Presages earthly tempest; as yon clouds,
That in their mute and ponderous blackness hang
Over our heads, a tumult in the skies-
The earth and heaven alike are terribly calm.
Alas! alas! give me the food! let's say
Farewell as fondly as a dying man
Should say it to a dying woman!
It shall not be. He, He hath given command,
Javan, one last, one parting word with thee-
There have been times, when I have said light words,
As maidens use, that made thy kind heart bleed;
There have been moments, when I have seen thee
sad,
And I have cruelly sported with thy sadness:
I have been proud, oh! very proud, to hear
Thy fond lips dwell on beauty, when thine eyes
Were on this thin and wasted form of mine.
Forgive me, oh! forgive me, for I deem'd
The hour would surely come, when the fond bride
Might well repay the maiden's waywardness.
Oh! look not thus o'erjoy'd, for if I thought
We e'er could meet again this side the grave,
That when the signs are manifest, we should flee (17) Trust me, I had been charier of my tenderness.
Unto the mountains.*
Of all her children, when this night is pass'd, Devoted Salem's darkest, and her last,
I knew not that my fond unconscious hand Had been so bold-Oh, Javan! ere the morn
"Twill have no power t' offend thee-'t will be cold. Of all her children none is left to her,
Offend me! Miriam, when thou 'rt above Among the Saints, and I in the sinful world, How terrible 't will be if I should forfeit The hope of meeting thee in blessedness.
Forfeit! with faith like thine?
Save those whose house is in the sepulchre.
Yet, guilty city, who shall mourn for thee?
Shall Christian voices wail thy devastation? Look down! look down, avenged Calvary,
Upon thy late yet dreadful expiation.
Oh! long foretold, though slow accomplish'd fate,
"Her house is left unto her desolate ;"
Thou well rebukest me. Proud Cæsar's ploughshare o'er her ruins driven,
Fulfils at length the tardy doom of heaven;
The wrathful vial's drops at length are pour'd
On the rebellious race that crucified their Lord!
To thy Redeemer I commit thee now,
To leave thee here, or take thee to himself.
Farewell, farewell! the life of this sad heart,—
Dearer than life—I look for thee, and lo!
Nought but blind darkness-
Save where yon mad city,
As though at peace and in luxurious joy,
Is hanging out her bright and festive lamps.
There have been tears from holier eyes than mine
Pour'd o'er thee, Zion! yea, the Son of Man
This thy devoted hour foresaw and wept.
And I can I refrain from weeping? Yes,
My country, in thy darker destiny
Will I awhile forget mine own distress.
I feel it now, the sad, the coming hour;
The signs are full, and never shall the sun
Shine on the cedar roofs of Salem more;
Her tale of splendour now is told and done:
Her wine-cup of festivity is spilt,
And all is o'er, her grandeur and her guilt.
Oh! fair and favour'd city, where of old
The balmy airs were rich with melody,
That led her pomp beneath the cloudless sky
In vestments flaming with the orient gold;
Her gold is dim, and mute her music's voice;
The Heathen o'er her perish'd pomp rejoice.
How stately then was every palm-deck'd street,
Down which the maidens danced with tinkling feet;
How proud the elders in the lofty gate!
How crowded all her nation's solemn feasts
With white-robed Levites and high-mitred Priests;
How gorgeous all her Temple's sacred state!
Her streets are razed, her maidens sold for slaves,
Her gates thrown down, her elders in their graves;
Her feasts are holden 'mid the Gentile's scorn,
By stealth her Priesthood's holy garments worn;
And where her Temple crown'd the glittering rock,
The wandering shepherd folds his evening flock.
When shall the work, the work of death begin?
When come the avengers of proud Judah's sin?
Aceldama! accursed and guilty ground,
Gird all the city in thy dismal bound,
Her price is paid, and she is sold like thou;
Let every ancient monument and tomb
Enlarge the border of its vaulted gloom,
Their spacious chambers all are wanted now.
But nevermore shall yon lost city need
Those secret places for her future dead;
Streets of Jerusalem-Night. Many Jews meeting.
Saw ye it, father! saw ye what the city
Stands gazing at? As I pass'd through the streets
There were pale women wandering up and down;
And on the house-tops there were haggard faces
Turn'd to the heavens, where'er the ghostly light
Fell on them. Even the prowling plunderers,
That break our houses for suspected food,
Their quick and stealthful footsteps check, and gasp
In wonder. They, that in deep weariness,
Or wounded in the battle of the morn,
Had cast themselves to slumber on the stones,
Lift up their drowsy heads, and languidly
Do shudder at the sight.
What sight? what say'st thou?
The star, the star, the fiery-tressed star,
That all this fatal year hath hung in the heavens
Above us, gleaming like a bloody sword,
Twice hath it moved. Men cried aloud, “A tem-
pest!"
And there was blackness, as of thunder clouds:
But yet that angry sign glared fiercely through them,
And the third time, with slow and solemn motion,
"T was shaken and brandish'd.
Timorous boy! thou speak'st As though these things were strange. Why now we sleep
With prodigies ablaze in all the heavens,
And the earth teeming with portentous signs,
As sound as when the moon and constant stars
Beam'd quietly upon the slumbering earth
Their customary fires. Dost thou remember,
At Pentecost, when all the land of Judah
Stood round the Altar, at the dead of night,
A Light broke out, and all the Temple shone
With the meteorous glory? 't was not like
The light of sun or moon, but it was clear
And bright as either, only that it wither'd
Men's faces to a hue like death.
What now? why all things sad and monstrous. The Prophets stand aghast, and vainly seek, Amid the thronging and tumultuous signs Which crowd this wild disastrous night, the intent Of the Eternal. Wonder breaks o'er wonder, As clouds roll o'er each other in the skies; And Terror, wantoning with man's perplexity, No sooner hath infix'd the awed attention
On some strange prodigy, than it straight distracts it To a stranger and more fearful.
The son of Hananiah? is 't not he?
Art thou a stranger in Jerusalem, That thou rememberest not that fearful man! FOURTH JEW.
Speak! speak! we know not all.
A rude and homely dresser of the vine,
He had come up to the Feast of Tabernacles,
When suddenly a spirit fell upon him,
Evil or good we know not. Ever since
(And now seven years are past since it befell,
Our city then being prosperous and at peace,)'
He hath gone wandering through the darkling streets
At midnight under the cold quiet stars;
He hath gone wandering through the crowded market
At noonday under the bright blazing sun,
With that one ominous cry of " Woe, woe, woe!"
Some scoff'd and mock'd him, some would give him
He neither cursed the one, nor thank'd the other. The Sanhedrim bade scourge him, and myself Beheld him lash'd, till the bare bones stood out Through the maim'd flesh, still, still he only cried, Hark? what's there? Woe to the City, till his patience wearied
To the sound of timbrels sweet, (18)
Moving slow our solemn feet,
We have borne thee on the road,
To the virgin's blest abode;
With thy yellow torches gleaming,
And thy scarlet mantle streaming,
And the canopy above
Swaying as we slowly move.
Thou hast left the joyous, feast,
And the mirth and wine have ceased;
The angry persecutors. When they freed him,
"T was still the same, the incessant Woe, woe, woe.
But when our siege began, awhile he ceased,
As though his prophecy were fulfill'd; till now
We had not heard his dire and boding voice.
JOSHUA, the Son of Hananiah.
A voice from the East! a voice from the West!
From the four winds a voice against Jerusalem!
A voice against the Temple of the Lord!
A voice against the Bridegrooms and the Brides!
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