HIGH-PRIEST.

Oh, God of Mercies! this was once thy city!

CHORUS.

Joy to thee, beautiful and bashful Bride!

Joy! for the thrills of pride and joy become thee; Thy curse of barrenness is taken from thee; And thou shalt see the rosy infant sleeping

Upon the snowy fountain of thy breast;

And thou shalt feel how mothers' hearts are blest By hours of bliss for moment's pain and weeping. Joy to thee!

The above, Simon, John.

SIMON.

Away! what do ye in our midnight streets?
Go sleep! go sleep! or we shall have to lash you,

When the horn summons to the morning's war,
From out your drowsy beds-Away! I say.

HIGH-PRIEST.

Simon, thou know'st not the dark signs abroad.

JOHN.

Ay! is't not fearful and most ominous

That the sun shines not at deep midnight? Mark

me,

Ye men with gasping lips and shivering limbs,

Thou mitred priest, and ye misnamed warriors,

If

ye infect with your pale aguish fears

Our valiant city, we'll not leave you limbs

To shake, nor voices to complain-T' your homes.

Simon, John.

JOHN.

In truth, good Simon, I am half your proselyte;

SIMON.

Brave John,

My soul is jocund. Expectation soars

Before mine eyes, like to a new-fledged eagle,

And stoopeth from her heavens with palms neʼer

worn

By brows of Israel. Glory mounts with her,
Her deep seraphic trumpet swelling loud
O'er Zion's gladdening towers.

JOHN.

Why, then, to sleep.

This fight by day, and revel all the night,

Needs some repose-I'll to my bed-Farewell!

SIMON.

Brave John, farewell! and I'll to rest, and dream
Upon the coming honours of to-morrow.

MIRIAM.

To-morrow! will that morrow dawn upon thee?
I've warn'd them, I have lifted up my voice
As loud as 'twere an angel's, and well nigh
Had I betray'd my secret they but scoff'd,
And ask'd how long I had been a prophetess?
But that injurious John did foully taunt me,
As though I envied my lost sister's bridal.
And when I clung to my dear father's neck,
With the close fondness of a last embrace,
He shook me from him.

But, ab me! how strange!

This moment, and the hurrying streets were full

As at a festival; now all's so silent

That I might hear the footsteps of a child.

The sound of dissolute mirth hath ceased, the lamps

Are spent, the voice of music broken off.

No watchman's tread comes from the silent wall,

There are nor lights nor voices in the towers.
The hungry have given up their idle search
For food, the gazers on the heavens are gone,
Even fear's at rest-all still as in a sepulchre !
And thou liest sleeping, oh Jerusalem!

A deeper slumber could not fall upon thee,

If thou wert desolate of all thy children,
And thy razed streets a dwelling-place for owls.

I do mistake! this is the Wilderness,

The Desert, where winds pass and make no sound,
And not the populous city, the besieged

And overhung with tempest. Why, my voice,
My motion, breaks upon the oppressive stillness
Like a forbidden and disturbing sound.
The very air's asleep, my feeblest breathing
Is audible-I'll think my prayers-and then-

-Ha! 'tis the thunder of the Living God!
It peals! it crashes! it comes down in fire!
Again! it is the engine of the foe,

Our walls are dust before it--Wake-oh wakeOh Israel!-Oh Jerusalem, awake!

Why shouldst thou wake? thy foe is in the heavens.