Poems by the late John Bethune :: :: University of Virginia Library

The clash of the battle is o'er,
The thundering balista hath ceased
Its ruining missiles to pour;
For the wall is o'erthrown, and each turret and spire
Of the Temple is shatter'd, and blacken'd with fire:
But where is the warrior and priest?
And where are the young and the beautiful? where
The virgins who moved with the dorcus's tread;
Whose songs were so sweet, and whose smiles were so fair?
Alas! they are silent and dead!

And where is the city of towers—
The lovely, the rich, and the free—
The city of palaces, gardens, and bowers—
The mistress of monarchs and seers—where is she?
She gave to the mightiest and wisest their birth,
And fill'd with her glory the nations of earth:

120

But she sunk by the vengeance of God, and her doom
Swoop'd down in the blood-crested eagles of Rome.
O'er the site of the temple and seat of the throne,
The ploughshare of scorn hath been driven,
And the salt of derision contemptuously sown
To denote the displeasure of Heaven.
And there stands not a stone on her desolate street,
For the ritual of mock'ry is darkly complete.

Oh! how had the wisest of men,
Who whilom bequeathed her a pile,
On whose equal the bright sun shall never again
Look down from his throne with a smile—
Even he who fulfill'd the bequest of his sire,
With a splendour beyond the projector's desire—
Oh! how had he grieved had he look'd on her now,
With the paleness of ashes encrusting her brow!

But a wiser than Solomon wept to behold
That city, while yet in her glory she stood—
While glancing with brilliants, and gleaming in gold,
With the eye of a God he foresaw and foretold
The doom which should quench them in blood.
He beheld in the womb of futurity swelling
That wrath which hath crush'd her to dust—
And left in her desolate precincts no dwelling
For the sons of the good and the just.

121

He foreknew all the pangs he should there undergo:
Yet with pity, which none but a Saviour could feel,
He felt for and wept o'er his enemy's woe,
Lamenting the wounds they forbade him to heal,
And grieving to think that her glory should cease,
For rejecting her King and his message of peace.
How gaily she shone with her turreted wall,
As the Saviour approach'd to her gate,
While a sorcery voluptuous seem'd settled on all—
Every soul save his own was elate:
For the days of futurity, dismal and drear,
Were conceal'd from their sight, though the omens were near.

And how did they welcome a stranger so high?
Did the pharisee, rabbi, and priest,
With each other in courteous solicitude vie
To press him to come to the feast?
Did they pour forth in haste from each splendid abode
To salute with devotion their King and their God?
Did they scatter with roses a path on the street,
Where the glorious Redeemer might tread?
Did they fall down and worship all low at his feet,
And crown with a diadem his head?

Were the valleys of Judah explored for his wreath?
And the flowers which in bloom were the fairest
Impress'd by the good in his garland, to breathe
Those perfumes around which were rarest?
Ah no! the salute he received was a blow;
He was hail'd with the hisses of scorn;

122

Every face which he met was the face of a foe,
And his crown was a chaplet of thorn.

In the mock robes of royalty spitefully dress'd—
Mid the taunts of the vile and the base—
See the Saviour of earth, who in heaven was caress'd,
Assailed by the finger of mortal disgrace—
As a mark for demoniac derision and jest—
For the miscreants spit in his merciful face.
But, alas! a more sad consummation of woe
Impurpled with anguish the snow of his brow;
For the outcasts of Israel were destined to fill
Their cup with a deadlier iniquity still.

Earth shook with affright through her rock-girded frame,
And the sun hid his head in the curtains of shame;
But the dedolent hearts of the Hebrews beheld
The Son of their God in his agony bleed,
Unmoved by the groanings of Nature, which swell'd
With awful convulsions, to witness the deed:
Till the Saviour, in suffering insufferable, cried,
“It is finish'd!” and bow'd himself meekly, and died.

It is finish'd!—the work of atoning for guilt:
The blood of the sinless for sin hath been spilt;
The chalice of death hath been fill'd to the brim,
And its deadliest drops have been dashed upon him.

123

It is finish'd!—the miscreants have finish'd the crime,
Which stains, yet illumines, the annals of time.
It is finish'd!—the glory of Salem is o'er,
And vengeance is ready the vials to pour:
Ay, vengeance itself is commission'd to burst
With the thunder of God, on the city accurst;
By the wrath of Jehovah propell'd, it appears
Like an ocean of fire, and a forest of spears;
And a spirit more potent than Cæsar's is there,
Which forbids the proud Roman the pleasure to spare.

It is finish'd!—the work of destruction is done;
Desolation's oblivious reign is begun;
And never again shall a temple adorn
The tenantless streets of Jerusalem;
Nor the ephod of priesthood in Salem be worn,
For the glory is fled from their city and them;
And divested of all, Mount Moriah shall mourn,
Unbless'd with a wall, and undeck'd with a gem.
For never again shall the Presence divine,
On its once holy top, in the Shechinah shine;
But, though swept from the face of the earth as a blot,
Shall the name of Jerusalem e'er be forgot?

No!—Earth may be hurl'd like a wreck from its place,
And the stars may be cast from the sky,
And Chaos again be the monarch of space:
But the spot where Messiah descended to die
Shall still be remember'd with reverence and love,
And recall'd in the songs of the angels above.

An engine for throwing stones, used by Titus at the siege of Jerusalem.—See “Artillery,” Penny Cyclopœdia.

The foundations of the city are said to have been ploughed up by the Romans, and sown with salt.