And he that doth the murtherous rite begin, To stranger Gods his hecatomb devotes; Break into joy, ye barren, that ne'er bore!(20) Rejoice, ye breasts, where ne'er sweet infant hung! From you, from you no smiling babes are wrung, Ye die, but not amid your children's gore. But howl and weep, oh ye that are with child, Ye on whose bosoms unwean'd babes are laid; The sword that's with the mother's blood defiled, Still with the infant gluts the insatiate blade. Fly! fly! fly! Fly not, I say, for Death is every where, To keen-eyed Lust all places are the same: There's not a secret chamber in whose lair Our wives can shroud them from th' abhorred shame. Where the sword fails, the fire will find us there, All, all is death-the Gentile or the flame. On to the Temple! Brethren, Israel on! Though every slippery street with carnage swims, Ho! spite of famish'd hearts and wounded limbs, Still, still, while yet there stands one holy stone, Fight for your God, his sacred house to save, Or have its blazing ruins for your grave! The Streets of Jerusalem. MIRIAM Thou hard firm earth, thou wilt not break before me, And hide me in thy dark and secret bosom ! Ye spare me only, I alone am mark'd And seal'd for life: death cruelly seems to shun me, Me, who am readiest and most wish to die. Oh! I have sat me by the ghastly slain In envy of their state, and wept a prayer That I were cold like them, and safe from th' hands Of the remorseless conqueror. I have fled, To the howling ravagers-they are every where. Before me, and behind me, and around me. But ah! the shrieks that come from out the dwel lings Of my youth's loved companions-every where I hear some dear and most familiar voice In its despairing frantic agonies. Ah me! that I were struck with leprosy, That sinful men might loathe me, and pass on. And I might now have been by that sweet foun tain Where the winds whisper through the moonlight leaves, I might have been with Javan there-Off, off An old Man, Miriam. OLD MAN. Who spake of Christ? What hath that name to do with saving here? He's here, he's here, the Lord of desolation, Behold him manifest! MIRIAM. Oh! aged man, And miserable, on the verge of the grave Thus lingering to behold thy country's ruin, OLD MAN. I, I beheld him, The Man of Nazareth whom thou mean'st-I saw him When he went labouring up the accursed bill. Heavily on his scourged and bleeding shoulders Press'd the rough cross, and from his crowned brow (Crown'd with no kingly diadem) the pale blood Was shaken off, as with a patient pity He look'd on us, the infuriate multitude. |