But ever as she busily minister'd,

Quick, sudden sobs of laughter broke from her.
At length the vessel's covering she raised up,

And there it lay

HIGH-PRIEST.

What lay?-Thou'rt sick and pale.

BEN CATHLA.

By earth and heaven, the remnant of a child!

A human child!

-Ay, start! so started we—

Whereat she shriek'd aloud, and clapp'd her hands,

"Oh! dainty and fastidious appetites !

"The mother feasts upon her babe, and strangers "Loathe the repast"-and then-"My beautiful child!

"The treasure of my womb! my bosom's joy!" And then in her cool madness did she spurn us

Out of her doors. Oh still-oh still I hear her,

And I shall hear her till my day of death.

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 nor leave you limbs.

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

SIMON, JOHN.

JOHN.

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

Your angels, that do bear such excellent wine,

Might shake a faith more firm than ours.

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 ne'er 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, ah 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,