 | Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems |  |
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THE PROPHECY OF JERUSALEM.
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'Twas Eve on Jerusalem!
Glorious its glow,
On the vine-covered plain,
On the Mount's marble brow;
On the Temple's broad grandeur,
Enthroned on its height,
Like a golden-domed isle
In an ocean of light;
And the voice of her multitude
Rose on the air,
From the vale deep and dim,
Like a rich evening hymn.
But, whence comes that cry?
'Tis the cry of despair!
Glorious its glow,
On the vine-covered plain,
On the Mount's marble brow;
On the Temple's broad grandeur,
Enthroned on its height,
Like a golden-domed isle
In an ocean of light;
And the voice of her multitude
Rose on the air,
From the vale deep and dim,
Like a rich evening hymn.
But, whence comes that cry?
'Tis the cry of despair!
Who stands upon Zion?
The Prophet of Woe!
His frame worn with travel,
His locks, living snow.
His hand grasps a trumpet.
Its sound gives a thrill
To each heart of the thousands!
The life-blood runs chill,
At that death-sounding blast!
All fixing their gaze,
Where, like one from the tomb,
The shroud seems to swim
Round the long, spectral limb,
And the ashy lip quivers
With judgment to come.
The Prophet of Woe!
His frame worn with travel,
His locks, living snow.
His hand grasps a trumpet.
Its sound gives a thrill
To each heart of the thousands!
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At that death-sounding blast!
All fixing their gaze,
Where, like one from the tomb,
The shroud seems to swim
Round the long, spectral limb,
And the ashy lip quivers
With judgment to come.
“Thou'rt lovely, Jerusalem;
Lovely, yet stained;
A Queen among nations,
Yet thou shalt be chained.
Thou'rt magnificent, Zion.
Yet thou shalt be lone.
The Pilgrim of sorrow!
I see thy last stone.
Lovely, yet stained;
A Queen among nations,
Yet thou shalt be chained.
Thou'rt magnificent, Zion.
Yet thou shalt be lone.
The Pilgrim of sorrow!
I see thy last stone.
“Hark, hark to the tempest!
What roar fills mine ear?
'Tis the shout of the warrior,
The storm of the spear,
The Eagle and Wolf
On that tempest are rolled,
Twin demons of havoc,
To ravage thy fold.
What roar fills mine ear?
'Tis the shout of the warrior,
The storm of the spear,
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On that tempest are rolled,
Twin demons of havoc,
To ravage thy fold.
“They rush through the land,
As through forests the fire;
Woe, woe to the infant,
Woe, woe to the sire.
Rejoice for the warrior
Who sinks to the grave;
But weep for the living,
A ransomless slave!
As through forests the fire;
Woe, woe to the infant,
Woe, woe to the sire.
Rejoice for the warrior
Who sinks to the grave;
But weep for the living,
A ransomless slave!
“But veiled be mine eyeballs,
The red torch is flung,
And the last dying hymn
Of the Temple is sung;
The Altar is vanished,
The glory is gone.
The vial is poured,
The high vengeance is done!
The red torch is flung,
And the last dying hymn
Of the Temple is sung;
The Altar is vanished,
The glory is gone.
The vial is poured,
The high vengeance is done!
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“Again all is silence,
But still the death-pall,
The flag of the Roman,
Is hung from the wall.
But the archers are coming,
Their shafts hide the heaven,
And the Eagle's proud breast
By the Persian is riven.
But still the death-pall,
The flag of the Roman,
Is hung from the wall.
But the archers are coming,
Their shafts hide the heaven,
And the Eagle's proud breast
By the Persian is riven.
“Hark! a sound from the South,
'Tis the echo of doom,
It comes from the Desert,
The living Simoom!
As fierce as its sun,
And as wild as its sand;
'Tis Amrou and his Saracens,
Curse of the land!
'Tis the echo of doom,
It comes from the Desert,
The living Simoom!
As fierce as its sun,
And as wild as its sand;
'Tis Amrou and his Saracens,
Curse of the land!
“Like the swamp-gendered hornets,
They rush on the wing,
By thousands of thousands,
With Death in their sting.
Like vultures, they sweep
O'er Moriah's loved hill,
And the corpse-covered valley
Of Cedron's red rill.
They rush on the wing,
By thousands of thousands,
With Death in their sting.
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O'er Moriah's loved hill,
And the corpse-covered valley
Of Cedron's red rill.
“Like the clouds on the mountains,
Like waves on the shore,
On sweep the swift chargers,
Whose hoof is in gore;
And Israel has fled
To the hill and the cave;
With slavery behind her,
Before her the grave.
Like waves on the shore,
On sweep the swift chargers,
Whose hoof is in gore;
And Israel has fled
To the hill and the cave;
With slavery behind her,
Before her the grave.
“And the clashing of lances
And shaking of reins,
Are the sounds of the morning
On Galilee's plains;
And the Desert tambour,
And the Desert-horn shrill,
Are the sounds of the sunset
On Zion's loved hill.
And shaking of reins,
Are the sounds of the morning
On Galilee's plains;
And the Desert tambour,
And the Desert-horn shrill,
Are the sounds of the sunset
On Zion's loved hill.
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“Where, where sleeps the thunderbolt?
Heaven! hear the cries
Of the Ishmaelite slave,
To his Prophet of lies;
Hear the howl to his demons,
His frenzy of prayer;
And, hear Israel's lament
Of disdain and despair!
Heaven! hear the cries
Of the Ishmaelite slave,
To his Prophet of lies;
Hear the howl to his demons,
His frenzy of prayer;
And, hear Israel's lament
Of disdain and despair!
“It has come! in the saddle
The robber has reeled,
And the turbans are floating
In blood on the field.
I see the proud Chiefs
Of the Cross in their mail;
And my soul loves the standard
They spread to the gale.
The robber has reeled,
And the turbans are floating
In blood on the field.
I see the proud Chiefs
Of the Cross in their mail;
And my soul loves the standard
They spread to the gale.
“Stay, vision of splendour!
On Jordan's broad marge,
They rush to the battle,
Earth shakes with their charge.
Like lightning the blaze
From their panoply springs;
I see the gold helms
And crowned banners of Kings.
On Jordan's broad marge,
They rush to the battle,
Earth shakes with their charge.
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From their panoply springs;
I see the gold helms
And crowned banners of Kings.
“Yet, evil still smites thee,
Thou daughter of tears!
No trophy is thine,
In the shock of the spears.
The stately Crusader,
And Saracen lord,
But give thee the choice
Of the chain, or the sword!
Thou daughter of tears!
No trophy is thine,
In the shock of the spears.
The stately Crusader,
And Saracen lord,
But give thee the choice
Of the chain, or the sword!
“Again all is silence,
The long grass has grown
Where the Cross-bearer sleeps,
In his rich-sculptured stone;
And the Land trod by Prophet,
And chaunted by Bard,
Is left to the foot
Of the wolf and the pard.
The long grass has grown
Where the Cross-bearer sleeps,
In his rich-sculptured stone;
And the Land trod by Prophet,
And chaunted by Bard,
Is left to the foot
Of the wolf and the pard.
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But who ride the whirlwind?
The drinkers of blood.
From the summit of Lebanon
Rushes the flood.
'Tis the Turcoman, hovering
For slaughter and spoil.
O, helpless gazelle!
Thou art now in the toil!
The drinkers of blood.
From the summit of Lebanon
Rushes the flood.
'Tis the Turcoman, hovering
For slaughter and spoil.
O, helpless gazelle!
Thou art now in the toil!
King of Kings! on our neck
Sits the slave of a slave,
As wild as his mountains,
As cold as our grave;
All his sceptre the scourge,
All our freedom his will.
Yet Thy children must tremble,
Must agonise still.
Sits the slave of a slave,
As wild as his mountains,
As cold as our grave;
All his sceptre the scourge,
All our freedom his will.
Yet Thy children must tremble,
Must agonise still.
Fly swift, ye dark years!
Still the savage is there;
The tiger of nations
Is couched in his lair.
The field is a thicket,
The City a heap,
And Israel on earth
Can but wander and weep.
Still the savage is there;
The tiger of nations
Is couched in his lair.
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The City a heap,
And Israel on earth
Can but wander and weep.
King of Kings! shall she die?
Hark! a trumpet afar;
It pierces my soul,
Yet no trumpet of war.
I hear the deep trampling
Of millions of feet,
And the shoutings of millions,
Yet solemn and sweet.
Hark! a trumpet afar;
It pierces my soul,
Yet no trumpet of war.
I hear the deep trampling
Of millions of feet,
And the shoutings of millions,
Yet solemn and sweet.
Now the voices of thunders
Are calling on high,
The pomp has begun,
The Redemption is nigh.
I see the crowned Fathers,
The Prophets of fire,
And the Martyrs, whose souls
Shot to Heaven from the pyre.
Are calling on high,
The pomp has begun,
The Redemption is nigh.
I see the crowned Fathers,
The Prophets of fire,
And the Martyrs, whose souls
Shot to Heaven from the pyre.
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Who comes in His glory,
Pavilioned in cloud?
Judah, cast off thy shame!
Israel, spring from thy shroud!
Thy King has avenged thee,
He comes to His own;
With earth for His empire,
And Zion His throne.
Pavilioned in cloud?
Judah, cast off thy shame!
Israel, spring from thy shroud!
Thy King has avenged thee,
He comes to His own;
With earth for His empire,
And Zion His throne.
| Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems | |