THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM. Jeremiah xix.; xxxiii. FALLEN is thy throne, O Israel! Silence is on thy plains. Thy dwellings all lie desolate; Thy children weep in chains. Where are the dews that fed thee That fire from heaven which led thee, Now lights thy path no more! Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem ! Once she was all thy own; Her love thy fairest heritage, Thy long-loved olive tree, Then sank the star of Solyma; "Go," said the Lord, "ye conquerors! Steep in her blood your swords; And raze to earth her battlements, For they are not the Lord's; Tell Zion's mournful daughter, But soon shall other pictured scenes When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine And on her mountains beauteous stand "Salvation by the Lord's right hand!" THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. MORE. -AND the muffled drum roll'd on the air, That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, Where every step was over the slain ; But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by, And he came to his native land to die. 'Twas hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand; 'Twas hard to be number'd amid the dead, But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more, The bugles ceas'd their wailing sound As the coffin was lower'd into the ground; A volley was fir'd, a blessing said, One moment's pause, and they left the dead!I saw a poor and an aged man, His step was feeble, his lip was wan : He knelt him down on the new rais'd mound, The Father had pray'd o'er his only Son! LITERARY GAZETTE. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. THE stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand! The deer across their greensward bound And the swan glides past them, with the sound The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or lips move tunefully along The cottage homes of England! They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair homes of England! Where first the child's glad spirit loves MRS. HEMANS. EXTRACT FROM AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. BENEATH these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf, in many a mouldering heap; Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Let not ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead-but to the grave. |