Thou canst o'erawe, thou in thy gentleness,

A trembling, pale, and melancholy maid,

The brutal violence of ungodly men.

Thou glidest on amid the dark pollution

In modesty unstain'd, and heavenly influences,
More lovely than the light of star or moon,

As though delighted with their own reflection

From spirit so pure,

dwell evermore upon

Oh! how dost thou, beloved proselyte

thee.

To the high creed of him who died for men,

Oh! how dost thou commend the truths I teach thee,

By the strong faith and soft humility

Wherewith thy soul embraces them! Thou prayest,

And I, who pray with thee, feel my words wing'd,
And holier fervor gushing from my heart,

While heaven seems smiling kind acceptance down

On the associate of so pure a worshipper.

But ah! why com'st thou not? these two long nights

I've watch'd for thee in vain, and have not felt

The music of thy footsteps on my spirit

Javan!

VOICE AT A DISTANCE.

JAVAN.

It is her voice! the air is fond of it,

And enviously delays its tender sounds

From the ear that thirsteth for them

-Miriam!

JAVAN, MIRIAM.

JAVAN.

Nay, stand thus in thy timid breathlessness,

That I may gaze on thee, and thou not chide me

Because I gaze too fondly.

MIRIAM.

Hast thou brought me

Thy wonted offerings?

JAVAN.

Dearest, they are here:

The bursting fig, the cool and ripe pomegranate,

The skin all rosy with the emprisoned wine;

All I can bear thee, more than thou canst bear

Home to the city.

MIRIAM.

Bless thee!-Oh my father!

How will thy famish'd and thy toil-bow'd frame

Resume its native majesty! thy words,

When this bright draught hath slak'd thy parched lips,

Flow with their wonted freedom and command.

JAVAN.

Thy father! still no thought but of thy father!
Nay, Miriam! but thou must hear me now,
Now ere we part-if we must part again,

If my sad spirit must be rent from thine.

Even now our city trembles on the verge

Of utter ruin. Yet a night or two,

And the fierce stranger in our burning streets

Stands conqueror: and how the Roman conquers,

Let Gischala, let fallen Jotapata (7)

Tell, if one living man, one innocent child,

Yet wander o'er their cold and scatter'd ashes.

They slew them, Miriam, the old gray man,

Whose blood scarce tinged their swords-(nay, turn not

from me,

The tears thou sheddest feel as though I wrung them From mine own heart, my life-blood's dearest drops)—

They slew them, Miriam, at the mother's breast,

The smiling infants;-and the tender maid,

The soft, the loving, and the chaste, like thee,
They slew her not till-

MIRIAM.

Javan, 'tis unkind!

I have enough at home of thoughts like these,

Thoughts horrible, that freeze the blood, and make

A heavier burthen of this weary life.

I hoped with thee t' have pass'd a tranquil hour,

A brief, a hurried, yet still tranquil hour!

-But thou art like them all! the miserable

Have only Heaven, where they can rest in peace,

Without being mock'd and taunted with their misery.

JAVAN.

Thou know'st it is a lover's wayward joy

To be reproach'd by her he loves, or thus

Thou would'st not speak. But 'twas not to provoke

That sweet reproof, which sounds so like to tenderness : I would alarm thee, shock thee, but to save.

That old and secret stair, down which thou stealest

At midnight through tall grass and olive trunks,
Which cumber, yet conceal thy difficult path,

It cannot long remain secure and open;
Nearer and closer the stern Roman winds
His trenches; and on every side but this
Soars his emprisoning wall. Yet, yet 'tis time,
And I must bear thee with me, where are met

In Pella the neglected church of Christ.

MIRIAM.

With thee! to fly with thee! thou mak'st me fear

Lest all this while I have deceived my soul,

Excusing to myself our stolen meetings