2. SIMON THE JEW TO TITUS.
Peace, John of Galilee! and I will answer
This purple-mantled captain of the Gentiles;
But in far other tone than he is wont
To hear about his silken couch of feasting
Amid his pamper'd parasites.-I speak to thee,
Titus, as warrior should accost a warrior.
The world, thou boastest, is Rome's slave; the sun
Rises and sets upon no realm but yours;
Ye plant your giant foot in either ocean,
And vaunt that all which ye o'erstride is Rome's.
But think ye, that because the common earth
Surfeits your pride with homage, that our land,
Our separate, peculiar, sacred land,
Portion'd and seal'd unto us by the God
Who made the round world and the crystal heavens-
A wond'rous land, where Nature's common course
Is strange and out of use, so oft the Lord
Invades it with miraculous intervention-
Think ye this land shall be an heathen heritage,
An high place for your Moloch? Haughty Gentile!
E'en now ye walk on ruin and on prodigy.
The air ye breathe is heavy and o'ercharged
With your dark gathering doom; and if our earth
Do yet in its disdain endure the footing
Of your arm'd legions, 'tis because it labours
With silent throes of expectation, waiting
The signal of your scattering. Lo! the mountains
Bend o'er you with their huge and lowering shadows,
Ready to rush and overwhelm : the winds
Do listen panting for the tardy presence
Of Him that shall avenge. And there is scorn,
Yea, there is laughter in our fathers' tombs,
To think that heathen conqueror doth aspire
To lord it over God's Jerusalem!
Yea, in hell's deep and desolate abode,
Where dwell the perish'd kings, the chief of earth,
They, whose idolatrous warfare erst assail'd
The Holy City and the chosen people;
They wait for thee, the associate of their hopes
And fatal fall, to join their ruin'd conclave.
He whom the Red Sea 'whelmed with all his host,
Pharoah, th' Egyptian; and the kings of Canaan;
The Philistine, the Dagon worshipper;
Moab, and Edom, and fierce Amalek;
And he of Babylon, whose multitudes,
E'en on the hills where gleam your myriad spears,
In one brief night th' invisible angel swept
With the dark noiseless shadow of his wing,
And morn beheld the fierce and riotous camp
One cold, and mute, and tombless cemetery,
Sennacherib all, all are risen, are moved;
Yea, they take up the taunting song of welcome
To him, who like themselves hath madly warr’d
'Gainst Zion's walls, and miserably fallen
Before th' avenging God of Israel!
CCCXX. JEREMIAH HOLME WIFFEN,
1792-1836.
LINES ON A CUCKOO.
Hail to thee, shouting Cuckoo! in my youth Thou wert long time the Ariel of my hope, The marvel of a summer! it did soothe To listen to thee on some sunny slope, Where the high oaks forbade an ampler scope Than of the blue skies upward, and to sit Canopied in the gladdening horoscope, Which thou, my planet, flung-a pleasant fit, Long time my hours endeared, my kindling fancy smit. And thus I love thee still-thy monotone,
The selfsame transport flashes through my frame, And when thy voice, sweet sy bil, all is flown My eager ear, I cannot choose but blame. O may the world these feelings never tame! If age o'er me her silver tresses spread,
I still would call thee by a lover's name, And deem the spirit of delight unfled,
Nor bear, though gray without, a heart to nature dead! CCCXXI. SHELLEY, 1792-1822.
I was an infant when my mother went
To see an atheist burned. She took me there:
The dark-robed priests were met around the pile ;
The multitude was gazing silently;
And, as the culprit passed with dauntless mien,
Tempered disdain in his unaltering eye,
Mixed with a quiet smile, shone calmly forth:
The thirsty fire crept round his manly limbs ;
His resolute eyes were scorched to blindness soon ;
His death-pang rent my heart! th' insensate mʊh
Uttered a cry of triumph, and I wept.
Weep not, child," cried my mother, " for that man Has said there is no God."
2. DEATH AND SLEEP.
How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep! One, pale as yonder waning moon, With lips of lurid hue;
The other, rosy as the morn When throned on Ocean's wave It blushes o'er the world, Yet both so passing wonderful!
Hath then the gloomy Power, Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres, Seized on her sinless soul?
Must then that peerless form, Which love and admiration cannot view
Without a beating heart, those azure veins,
Which steal like streams along a field of snow,
That lovely outline, which is fair
As breathing marble, perish?
Must putrefaction's breath
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight
But loathsomeness and ruin?
Spare nothing but a gloomy theme,
On which the lightest heart might moralize?
Or is it only a sweet slumber
Stealing o'er sensation,
Which the breath of roseate morning
Chaseth into darkness ?
Will Ianthe wake again,
And give that faithful bosom joy,
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch
Light, life, and rapture, from her smile?
Yes, she will wake again,
Although her glowing limbs are motionless,
And silent those sweet lips,
Onee breathing eloquence
That might have soothed a tiger's rage,
Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror.
Her dewy eyes are closed,
And in their lids, whose texture fine
Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath,
The baby Sleep is pillowed.
Her golden tresses shade
Her bosom's stainless pride,
Curling like tendrils of the parasite
Around a marble column.
CCCXXII. JOHN CLARE, 1793–
TO MARY LEE.
I have traced the valleys fair
In May morning's dewy air,
My bonny Mary Lee!
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,
Gather'd all for thee?
They are not flowers of pride,
For they graced the dingle-side;
Yet they grew in heaven's smile,
My gentle Mary Lee!
Can they fear thy frown the while,
Though offeréd by me?
Here's the lily of the vale,
That perfumed the morning gale,
My fairy Mary Lee!
All so spotless and so pale,
Like thine own purity.
And, might I make it known,
"Tis an emblem of my own
Love-if I dare so name
My esteem for thee.
Surely flowers can bear no blame,
My bonny Mary Lee!
Here's the violet's modest blue,
That 'neath hawthorns hides from view,
My gentle Mary Lee,
Would show whose heart is true,
While it thinks of thee.
While they choose each lonely spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I'm as lowly, too, indeed,
My charming Mary Lee;
So I've brought the flowers to plead,
And win a smile from thee.
Here's a wild rose just in bud;
Spring's beauty in its hood,
My bonny Mary Lee!
'Tis the first in all the wood
I could find for thee.
Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love, for I've no power,
My angel, Mary Lee,
To speak unless the flower
Can make excuse for me.
Though they deck no princely halls
In bouquets for glittering balls,
My gentle Mary Lee!
Richer hues than painted walls
Will make them dear to thee;
For the blue and laughing sky
Spreads a grander canopy
Than all wealth's golden skill,
My charming Mary Lee!
Love would make them dearer stili,
That offers them to thee.
My wreathéd flowers are few
Yet no fairer drink the dew,
My bonny Mary Lee!
They may seem as trifles too-
Not I hope to thee.
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