And the dark tribes of late-reviving Spain; Here in black files, advancing firm and slow, Victorious Albion twangs the deadly bow, Albion, still prompt the captive's wrong to aid, And wield in Freedom's cause the freeman's generous blade! Ye sainted spirits of the warrior dead, Whose giant force Britannia's armies led! Whose bickering falchions, foremost in the fight, Still poured confusion on the Soldan's might; Lords of the biting axe and beamy spear, Wide-conquering Edward, Lion Richard, hear! At Albion's call your crested pride re And the green waters of reluctant Nile, Th' apostate chief'1-from Misraim's subject shore To Acre's walls his trophied banners bore; When the pale desert marked his proud array, And desolation hoped an ampler sway; What hero then triumphant Gaul dismayed? What arm repelled the victor Renegade? Britannia's champion !2-bathed in hostile blood, High on the breach the dauntless Seaman stood: Admiring Asia saw th' unequal fight,— E'en the pale crescent blessed the Christian's might. O day of death! O thirst, beyond control, Of crimson conquest in the Invader's soul! The slain, yet warm, by social footsteps Lone-as yon lonely city stands A sad but not unhappy-thing! What if my loves-like yonder waves, Those dull and dreary waters own, High o'er them, with its thousand flowers, Its precious crown of scent and bloom, Hope, like another Carmel, towers In sunshine and in gloom! Flinging upon the wasted breast Sweets born in climes more pure and high, And pointing, with its lofty crest, Beyond the starry sky, Where a new Jordan's waves shall gem A statelier Jerusalem! JOHN KEBBLE HERVEY (1804-1859). THE NEW JERUSALEM. O MOTHER dear, Jerusalem, O happy harbor of God's saints! No dimly cloud o'ershadows thee, Nor gloom, nor darksome night; But every soul shines as the sun, For God himself gives light. Thy walls are made of precious stone, O my sweet home, Jerusalem! Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. Quite through the streets with pleasing sound The flood of life doth flow; And on the banks, on every side, The trees of life do grow. These trees each month yield ripened fruit; Forevermore they spring, And all the nations of the earth Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place O that my sorrows had an end, I long to see Jerusalem, The comfort of us all; For thou art fair and beautiful,— None il can thee befall. O passing happy were my state, Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Thy joys fain would I see; Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief, And take me home to thee! DAVID DICKSON (1583-1663). THE JEWISH PILGRIM. ARE these the ancient, holy hills Where angels walked of old? Is this the land our story fills With glory not yet cold? For I have pass'd by many a shrine, O'er many a land and seaBut still, O promised Palestine, My dreams have been of thee! I see thy mountain-cedars green, Thy valleys fresh and fair, With summers bright, as they have been When Israel's home was there; Though o'er thee sword and time have past, And cross and crescent shone, And heavily the chain hath press'dBut thou art still our own! Thine are the wandering race that go snow And quench'd the desert sand; And thine the homeless hearts that turn From all earth's shrines to thee, With their lone faith, for ages borne In sleepless memory. For thrones are fall'n, and nations gone Are forests in their prime, Since Gentile ploughshares marr'd the brow Of Zion's holy hill; Where are the Roman eagles now?— Yet Judah wanders still! And hath she wander'd thus in vain, Oh! lost and loved Jerusalem, To see the glad earth's harvests home But now resign'd, in faith and trust At least beneath thy hallow'd dust FRANCES BROWNE (1816-). THE VALLEY OF JEHOSHAPHAT. COME, Son of Israel, scorned in every land, Outcast and wandering- come with mournful step Down to the dark vale of Jehoshaphat, And weigh the remnant of thy hoarded gold To buy thyself a grave among the bones Of patriarchs and of prophets, and of kings. It is a glorious place to take thy rest, Poor child of Abraham, 'mid those awful scenes, And sceptered monarchs, who, with Faith's keen eye, Piercing the midnight darkness that o'erhung Messiah's coming, gave their dying flesh Unto the worm, with such a lofty trust In the strong promise of the invisible. Here are damp gales to lull thy dreamless sleep, And murmuring recollections of that lyre Whose passing sweetness bore King David's prayer Up to the ear of Heaven, and of that strain With which the weeping prophet dirgelike sung Doomed Zion's visioned woes. Yon rifted rocks, So faintly purpled by the westering sun, Reveal the unguarded walls, the silent towers, Where, in her stricken pomp, Jerusalem Sleeps like a palsied princess, from whose head The diadem hath fallen. Still half concealed In the deep bosom of that burial-vale A fitful torrent, 'neath its time-worn arch, Hurries, with hoarse tale, 'mid the echoing tombs. Bring again Thy scattered people, who so long have borne A fearful punishment, so long wrung out The bitter dregs of pale astonishment Into the wine-cup of the wondering earth. And oh! to us, who from our being's dawn Lisp out Salvation's lessons, yet do stray Like erring sheep, to us thy Spirit give, |