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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

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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

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Lone-as yon lonely city stands
Among her thousand tombs !
Amid its mouldering wrecks and weeds,
While memory-like that river-sings,
Or-like the night-breeze in the reeds-
Plays with its broken strings,
My spirit sits, with folded wing,

A sad but not unhappy-thing!

What if my loves-like yonder waves,
That seek a dead and tideless sea-
Have perished in the place of graves,
That darkly waits for me!
What if no outlet of the earth

Those dull and dreary waters own,
And time can give no second birth
To dreams and wishes gone!
What though my fount of early joy,
Like Kedron's springs, be almost dry!

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!



O MOTHER dear, Jerusalem,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end,-
Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbor of God's saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow can be found,
Nor grief, nor care, nor toil.

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,
Thy bulwarks diamond-square,
Thy gates are all of orient pearl,-
O God! if I were there!

O my sweet home, Jerusalem!
Thy joys when shall I see?—
The King sitting upon thy throne,
And thy felicity?

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks
Continually are green,

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
To thee their honors bring.

Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place
Full sore I long to see;

O that my sorrows had an end,
That I might dwell in thee!

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,
Might I be worthy found
To wait upon my God and King,
His praises there to sound!

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
Unblest through every land,
Whose blood hath stain'd the Polar


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
Before the march of Time,
And where the ocean roll'd alone

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,
A pilgrim of the past?
No!-long deferr'd her hope hath been-
But it shall come at last;
For in her wastes a voice I hear,
As from some prophet's urn—
It bids the nations build not there,
For Jacob shall return!

Oh! lost and loved Jerusalem,
Thy pilgrim may not stay

To see the glad earth's harvests home
In thy redeeming day;

But now resign'd, in faith and trust
I seek a nameless tomb-

At least beneath thy hallow'd dust
Oh, give the wanderer room!



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


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,

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