Now ere we part-if we must part again,
If my sad spirit must be rent from thine.
Even now our city trembles on the verge
Of utter ruin. Yet a night or two,
And the fierce stranger in our burning streets,
Stands conqueror: and how the Roman conquers,
Let Gisehala, let fallen Jotapata (7)
Tell, if one living man, one innocent child,
Yet wander o'er their cold and scatter'd ashes.
They slew them, Miriam, the old grey man,
With their importunate and jarring din,
Javan, I think on thee, and am at peace.
Our famish'd maidens gaze on me, and see
That I am famish'd like themselves, as pale,
With lips as parch'd and eyes as wild, yet I
Sit patient with an enviable smile
On my wan cheeks, for then my spirit feasts
Contented on its pleasing thoughts of thee.
My very prayers are full of thee, I look
To heaven and bless thee; for from thee I learnt
Whose blood scarce tinged their swords-(nay, turn The way by which we reach the eternal mansions.
The tears thou sheddest feel as though I wrung them
From mine own heart, my life-blood's dearest drops)
They slew them, Miriam, at the mother's breast,
The smiling infants;-and the tender maid,
The soft, the loving and the chaste, like thee,
They slew her not till-
I have enough at home of thoughts like these,
Thoughts horrible, that freeze the blood, and make
A heavier burthen of this weary life.
I hoped with thee t' have pass'd a tranquil hour,
A brief, a hurried, yet still tranquil hour!
-But thou art like them all! the miserable
Have only Heaven, where they can rest in peace,
Without being mock'd and taunted with their misery.
Thou know'st it is a lover's wayward joy
To be reproach'd by her he loves, or thus
Thou wouldst not speak. But 't was not to provoke
That sweet reproof, which sounds so like to tenderness:
I would alarm thee, shock thee, but to save.
That old and secret stair, down which thou stealest
At midnight through tall grass and olive trunks,
Which cumber, yet conceal thy difficult path,
It cannot long remain secure and open;
Nearer and closer the stern Roman winds
His trenches; and on every side but this
Soars his imprisoning wall. Yet, yet 't is time,
And I must bear thee with me, where are met
In Pella the neglected church of Christ.
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Oh cease! I pray thee cease!
Javan! I know that all men hate my father;
Javan! I fear that all should hate my father;
And therefore, Javan, must his daughter's love,
Her dutiful, her deep, her fervent love,
Make up to his forlorn and desolate heart
The forfeited affections of his kind.
Is 't not so written in our Law? and He
We worship came not to destroy the Law.
Then let men rain their curses, let the storm
Of human hate beat on his rugged trunk,
I will cling to him, starve, die, bear the scoffs
Of men upon my scatter'd bones with him.
Oh, Miriam! what a fatal art hast thou
Of winding thought, word, act, to thy sole purpose;
The enamouring one even now too much enamour'd!
I must admire thee more for so denying,
Than I had dared if thou hadst fondly granted.
Thou dost devote thyself to utterest peril,
And me to deepest anguish; yet even now
Thou art lovelier to me in thy cold severity,
Flying me, leaving me without a joy,
Without a hope on earth, without thyself;
Thou art lovelier now than if thy yielding soul
Had smiled on me a passionate consent.
Go! for I see thy parting homeward look,
Go in thy beauty! like a setting star,
The last in all the thick and moonless heavens,
O'er the lone traveller in the trackless desert.
Go! if this dark and miserable earth
Do jealously refuse us place for meeting,
There is a heaven for those who trust in Christ.
Farewell!
I had forgotThe fruit, the wine- -Oh! when I part from thee How can I think of aught but thy last words?
Bless thee! but we may meet again even here! Thou look'st consent, I see it through thy tears. Yet once again that cold sad word, Farewell!
Oh God! thou surely dost approve mine act,
For thou didst bid thy soft and silver moon
To light me back upon my intricate way.
Even o'er each shadowy thing at which I trembled
She pour'd a sober beauty, and my terror
Was mingled with a sense of calm delight.
How changed that way! when yet a laughing child,
It was my sport to thread that broken stair
That from our house leads down into the vale,
By which, in ancient days, the maidens stole
To bathe in the cool fountain's secret waters.
In each wild olive trunk, and twisted root
Of sycamore, with ivy overgrown,
Our bridal songs! (8) Away! I know them now,
They were the rich and bursting cadences
That thrall'd mine ears. I tell thee, doubting woman!
My spirit drank the sounds of all the city.
I have nestled, and the flowers would seem to wol- And there were shriekings for the dead, and sobs
Of dying men, and the quick peevish moan
Of the half famish'd: there were trumpet sounds
Of arming to the battle, and the shouts
Of onset, and the fall of flaming houses
Crashing around. But in the house of Simon,
The silver lute spake to the dulcimer;
The tabret and the harp held sweet discourse;
And all along our roofs, and all about
The silence of our chambers flow'd the sweetness.
Even yet I hear them-Hark! yet, yet they sound.
Alas! we listen to our own fond hopes,
Even till they seem no more our fancy's children. We put them on a prophet's robes, endow them With prophets' voices, and then Heaven speaks in them,
And that which we would have be, surely shall be.
What, mock'st thou still? still enviously doubtest The mark'd and favour'd of the Everlasting?
O gracious Lord! thou know'st she hath not eaten
For two long days, and now her troubled brain
Is full of strangeness.
Ha! still unbelieving!
Then, then 't is true, what I have doubted long.
False traitress to our city, to the race,
The chosen race of Abraham! loose apostate
From Israel's faith! Believer in the Crucified!
I know thee, I abjure thee. Thou 'rt no child
Of Simon's house, no sister of Salone:
I blot thee from my heart, I wipe away
All memory of our youthful pleasant hours,
Our blended sports and tasks, and joys and sorrows; Yea, I'll proclaim thee.
As though the warmth that breath'd from out their The darkness of my father's soul? Thou knowest bodies
Had some refreshment for their wither'd lips.
We bared our swords to slay: but subtle John
Snatch'd the food from her, trod it on the ground,
And mock'd her.
But thou didst not smite her, father?
No! we were wiser than to bless with death A wretch like her.
But I must seek within,
If he that oft at dead of midnight placeth The wine and fruit within our chosen house, Hath minister'd this night to Israel's chief. MIRIAM, SALONE.
Oh, Miriam! I dare not tell him now!
For even as those two infants lay together
Nestling their sleeping faces on each other,
Even so have we two lain, and I have felt
Thy breath upon my face, and every motion
Of thy soft bosom answering to mine own.
SIMON, SALONE, MIRIAM.
Come, daughters, I have wash'd my bloody hands, And said my prayers, and we will eat-And thee
In what strong bondage Zeal and ancient Faith,
Passion and stubborn Custom, and fierce Pride,
Hold th' heart of man. Thou knowest, Merciful!
That knowest all things, and dost ever turn
Thine eye of pity on our guilty nature.
For thou wert born of woman! thou didst come,
Oh Holiest to this world of sin and gloom,
Not in thy dread omnipotent array;
And not by thunders strew'd
Was thy tempestuous road;
Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way.
But thee, a soft and naked child,
Thy mother undefiled,
In the rude manger laid to rest
From off her virgin breast.
The heavens were not commanded to prepare
A gorgeous canopy of golden air;
Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high:
A single silent star
Came wandering from afar,
Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky;
The Eastern Sages leading on
As at a kingly throne,
To lay their gold and odours sweet
Before thy infant feet.
The Earth and Ocean were not hush'd to hear
Bright harmony from every starry sphere;
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song
From all the cherub choirs,
And seraphs' burning lyres
As rushing fire, and terrible as the wind
That sweeps the tentless desert-Ye that move
Shrouded in secresy as in a robe,
And gloom of deepest midnight the vaunt-courier
Of your dread presence! Will ye not reveal?
Pour'd thro' the host of heaven the charmed clouds Will ye not one compassionate glimpse vouchsafe
One angel troop the strain began,
Of all the race of man
The simple shepherds heard alone,
That soft Hosanna's tone.
And when thou didst depart, no car of flame
To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came;
By what dark instruments 't is now your charge
To save the holy city?-Lord of Israel!
Thee too I ask, with bold yet holy awe,
Which now of thy obsequious elements
Choosest thou for thy champion and thy combatant?
For well they know, the wide and deluging Waters,
The ravenous Fire, and the plague-breathing Air,
Yea, and the yawning and wide-chasm'd Earth,
Nor visible Angels mourn'd with drooping plumes: They know thy bidding, by fix'd habit bound
Nor didst thou mount on high
From fatal Calvary
To the usage of obedience. Or the rather,
Look we in weary yet undaunted hope
With all thine own redeem'd outbursting from their For Him that is to come, the Mighty Arm,
The air is still and cool. It comes not yet:
I thought that I had felt it in my sleep
Weighing upon my choked and labouring breast,
That did rejoice beneath the stern oppression;
I thought I saw its lurid gloom o'erspreading
The starless waning night. But yet it comes not,
The broad and sultry thunder-cloud, wherein
The God of Israel evermore pavilions
The chariot of his vengeance. I look out,
And still, as I have seen, morn after morn,
The hills of Judah flash upon my sight
The accursed radiance of the Gentile arms.
But oh! ye sky-descending ministers,
That on invisible and soundless wing
Stoop to your earthly purposes, as swift
The Wearer of the purple robe of vengeance,
The Crowned with dominion! Let him haste;
The wine-press waits the trampling of his wrath,
And Judah yearns t' unfurl the Lion banner
Before the terrible radiance of his coming.
SIMON, JOHN, ELEAZAR, the HIGH-PRIEST, AMARIAH,
How, Simon! have we broken on thy privacy!
Thou wert discoursing with the spirits of air.
Now, Eleazar, were not holy Simon,
The just, the merciful, the righteous Simon,
A vessel meet for the prophetic trance?
Methinks 't is on him now!
Ha! John of Galilee,
Still in the taunting vein? Reservest thou not
The bitter overflowings of thy lips
For yon fierce Gentiles?-But I will endure.
And then perchance 't will please the saintly Simon,
When he hath mumbled o'er his two-hour prayers,
That we do ope our gates and sally forth
To combat the uncircumcised-
Thy scoffs
Fall on me as the thin and scattering rain
Upon our Temple. If thou art here to urge
That, with confederate valiant resolution,
We burst upon the enemies of Jerusalem;
The thunder followeth not the lightning's flash
More swiftly than my warlike execution
Shall follow the fierce trumpet of thy wrath!
But hast thou ponder'd well, if still there be not
Some holy fast, new moon, or rigid sabbath,
Which may excuse a tame and coward peace
For one day longer to yon men of Edom?
Oh! 't is unwise, ye sworded delegates
Of him who watcheth o'er Jerusalem,
Thus day by day in angry quarrel meeting
To glare upon each other, and to waste
In civil strife the blood that might preserve us.
The Roman conquers, but by Jewish arms.
The torrent, that in one broad channel rolling
Bears down the labour'd obstacles of man,
The o'erstriding bridge, the fix'd and ponderous dam,
Being sever'd, in its lazy separate course
Suffers control, and stagnates to its end.
And so ye fall, because ye do disdain
To stand together-like the pines of Lebanon,
That when in one vast wood they crown the hill,
From their proud heads shake off the uninjuring tem-
pest;
But when their single trunks stand bare and naked
Before the rushing whirlwind, one by one
It hurls the uprooted trunks into the vale.
ELEAZAR (apart).
Curse on his words of peace! fall John, fall Simon,
There falls an enemy of Eleazar.
Men of Jerusalem! whose hardy zeal
And valiant patience in a cause less desperate
Might force the foe to reverence and admire;
Now, John of Galilee, the High-Priest speaks wisely. To you thus speaks again the Queen of Earth,
Why, ay, it is the privilege of their office,
The solemn grave distinction of their ephod.
Even such discourse as this, so calm, so sage,
Did old Mathias hold; (9) and therefore Simon,
Unwilling that the vantage of his wisdom
Should rob our valour of its boasted fame,
Did slay him with his sons upon our wall!
Peace, son of Belial! or I'll scourge thee back
To the harlot chambers of thy loose adulteries.
I slew my foe, and where's the armed man
That will behold his enemy at his feet,
And spare to set his foot upon his neck?
All-conquering Rome!-whose kingdom is, where'er
The sunshine beams on living men; beneath
The shadow of whose throne the world reposes,
And glories in being subjected to her,
Even as 't is subject to the immortal gods-
To you, whose mad and mutinous revolt
Hath harrow'd all your rich and pleasant land
With fiery rapine : sunk your lofty cities
To desolate heaps of monumental ashes;
Yet with that patience, which becomes the mighty,
The endurance of the lion, that disdains
The foe whose conquest bears no glory with it,
Rome doth command you to lay down your arms,
And bow the high front of your proud rebellion
The sword was given, and shall the sword not slay? Even to the common level of obedience,
Break off! break off! I hear the Gentile horn
Winding along the wide entrenched line.
Hear ye it not? hill answers hill, the valleys
In their deep channels lengthen out the sound.
It rushes down Jehoshaphat, the depths
Of Hinnom answer. Hark! again they blow,
Chiding you, men of Judah, and insulting
Your bare and vacant walls, that now oppose not
Their firm array of javelin-burling men,
Slingers, and pourers of the liquid fire.
That holds the rest of of human kind. So doing,
Ye cancel all the dark and guilty past:
Silent Oblivion waits to wipe away
The record of your madness and your crimes;
And in the stead of bloody Vengeance claiming
Her penal due of torture, chains, and death,
Comes reconciling Mercy.
Mercy! Roman,
With what a humble and a modest truth
Thou dost commend thy unpresuming virtues!
Ye want not testimonies to your mildness--(10)
There, on yon lofty crosses, which surround us,
Blow! blow! and rend the heavens, thou deep-voiced Each with a Jewish corpse sublimely rotting
I hear thee, and rejoice at thee. Thon summoner
To the storm of battle, thou that dost invite
With stern and welcome importunity
The warrior soul to that high festival,
Where valour with his armed hand administers
The cup of death!
JOHN.
Again, again it sounds;
It doth demand a parley with our chiefs.
Ay, father! and let Israel's chiefs reply
In the brave language of their javelin showers,
And shouts of furious onset.
On its most honourable eminence;
There's none in all that long and ghastly avenue
Whose wind-bleach'd bones depose not of thy mercy.
We know our brethren, and we thank thee too:
A courteous welcome hast thou given them, Roman,
Who have abandon'd us in the hour of peril.
They fled to 'scape their ruthless countrymen :
And, in good truth, their City of Refuge seems
To have found them fair and gentle entertainment.
Peace, John of Galilee! and I will answer
This purple-mantled Captain of the Gentiles;
But in far other tone than he is wont
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