There stood, while Caesar thus, addressing, spake— "Know the great peril which ye undertake; And he who will, of all this shining train, Now throng'd upon this far-extended plain, First dare attempt to scale this lofty wall, And shall succeed above them, one and all Shall be promoted to a high estate, Should he escape the deadly shafts of Fate." "I will," cried one, "the lofty wall ascend, Scale its rude pile, and with the foe contend:" Then o'er his head he threw his brazen shield, And like a lion stalk'd along the field. The host, beholding, saw the hero rise O'er the high wall, and shook, with shouts, the skies: Ten others also, by his daring fir'd, Whose hearts were with the love of fame inspir'd, With rapid strides, his dang'rous track pursue; 'Mid whistling darts, that round them quickly flew, These mount the wall-the Jews astonish'd fly, While shouts of triumph echo round the sky: The Zealot bands a shower of missiles pour'd The fatal shafts, with dreadful hissing, roar'd: Swift, from their shields, the falling missiles bound, And roll, impetuous, o'er the rocky ground; The foremost strove a rock's vast bulk to gain, But stumbling, as he strove, roll'd down amain, And fell within the area of the wall, And loud the earth resounded to his fall; Then rush'd the Zealots to the fatal spot The champion with a thousand fiercely fought; And while the city shook to war's alarms; Toss'd like a sea, when furious tempests roar, And rolls her waves high-foaming on the shore So heav'd sad Salem to the Spoiler's sword, Nor yet, to save her, would confess her lord: Without her walls his mighty legions stood, Within was Famine and her fiendish brood, To drain the life-blood from her throbbing heart, By Faction pierc'd, and prob'd in ev'ry part. Where now the hand to check the fatal blow To waste with Death her strong, oppressive foe? Ah! fated city, thou hadst griev'd thy God, And Justice still provok'd his vengeful rod; Though thou dost mourn, thy woes He I will not heal Nor soothe the pangs which thou art doomed to feel; His vengeful wrath must scathe thy vaunted realm, Till wild destruction shall thy land o'erwhelm: Long has thy land, thy spirit-trodden clime, Been the abode of Bloodshed, Guilt and Crime; And thou must writhe beneath the By hunger urged, pursuing, howls for food All day will seek-but finding none, at night, Raging, returns with craving appetiteHowls to his lair upon the mountain steep Devours his nurslings as they lie asleep Of one and all a gen'ral havoc makes-Slakes thus his hunger, then his lair forsakes. And Mary, thus by Famine's rage compell'd, Against Affection's nat'ral laws rebell'd; Roasts her own child-the idol of her soul Nor could Affection's laws her hands control. Most wicked action in the book of Time! Our heart's blood curdles to relate the crime; And ev'ry feeling of our heart does bleed, And Pity, blushing, mourns the horrid deed! Such were the ills, sad Salem, thou didst feel, When pierced and torn by the Avenger's steel! And still his vengeance was not fully paid His hand still held the sanguinary blade. Now o'er the ramparts see Rome's eagles wave, And martial myriads rush unwont to save; There mail-clad warriors round the Temple throng, And chieftains goad their harness'd steeds along; Fair, too, the sun sheds his departing smile Upon the Temple's consecrated pile, And brightly through its gothic cloisters play'd, In radiant lines, along its cool arcade; And his last rays, that streak'd that vault of blue, Sigh'd to thy golden spires a last adieu; And heavenward flash'd her hallow'd light afar, See the lone maiden front the soldier's steel Or o'er her breast the courser drive his heel; Or by the Temple's burning splendor stole, And on its altars lay her languid soul. Their weary sages in her court-yards laid Once the defenders of the olive shadeNow crush'd to earth, in dreadful carnage roll'd, Where her white pavements stream with molten gold. Ah! then, would Pity not regard thy woes, As o'er the hills the burning Temple rose? Ah, no! no pity in the victor's breast, Had power to soothe thy raging soul to rest! Though long he strove to quench the flaming brand, Still it roll'd high above his pitying hand; And now the bray of arms on armor broke, And sire and son felt the strong sabre's stroke; Prest to the earth, the steel-smote warriors kneel, And greet the woes which they were doom'd to feel: Then wild the war-cry peal'd by Judah's hills, And stirr'd the silence of her slumb'ring rills; And the deep glens, by Jordan's yellow wave, Heard the last struggles of the free and brave Came o'er her deserts like some mournful tone Breath'd, by a spirit, from a world unknown, And onward passing to its destined shore, To sink to rest, nor wake the world no more. Ah, mitred Queen, whose sceptre and whose throne Hadst made the Eastern empire all thy own, How art thou fall'n!-in the dust laid low, And all thy splendor wrapt in weeds of wo! Thy gorgeous Temple and its towers have fell Chaos of ruins where the pompous swell Of arch and column, that adorn'd thy site, Forth bodying blindness on the gazer's sight: Ah! all is swept by the proud Roman's plough, And now thy beauty spreads thy sainted brow: Thy jubilees are past-thy feasts are o'er Thy altars smoke with votive gifts no more; Nor from Samaria's hallow'd peaks arise The smoke of fragrant incense to the skies: No tabret pipes are heard on Zion's hill, No browsing sheep-flocks bleat by Siloa's rill; Nor harp at morn is heard by Kedron's wave, Where Jewish maids of old were wont to lave Their snow-white feet, or from her verdant side Crop the white rose, fair Sharon's nobler pride; No timbrel's notes break through thy marble walls, Nor dark-ey'd maidens harp amid thy halls, To cheer the dance with music's hallow'd swell, Nor Israel's bards drink prescience from its spell; Ah! all is gone, for Ruin widely, now, Lifts his grim visage o'er thy princely brow; Nor aught remains, of all thy pride, to tell Where once thou wast, or where thy glory fell But yet shalt thou amid thy wastes arise, And clear the Night of Ages from thy skies. JOHNSON PIERSON (Published St. Louis, 1844.) LET US DEPART. It is mentioned by Josephus, that a short time previous to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, "Let us depart hence." NIGHT hung on Salem's towers, And a brooding hush profound Lay where the Roman eagle shone, High o'er the tents around. The tents that rose by thousands In the moonlight glimmering pale; Like the white waves of a frozen sea, Filling an Alpine vale, And the temple's massy shadow Fell broad, and dark, and still, In peace, as if the Holy One Yet watch'd His chosen hill. But a fearful sound was heard Within the fated city E'en then fierce discord raved, Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword Its vengeful token waved. There were shouts of kindred warfare Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told Of the bloody vintage nigh. Though the wild red spears and arrows In the sky now seen, now lost. And that fearful sound was heard |