And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I marked not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head !

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign;
And scattered and scorn'd as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.

Connected as the subject of this melody is with the fulfilment of the most completely verified prophecy, it cannot but be supposed that it greatly interested the mind of the writer. The destruction of that venerable city, which was peculiarly the object of divine guardianship, involved in all the horrors that parallel miseries can furnish to our imaginations, and the conviction that one stone no longer lay on the other, strike the reflective and considerate mind with awe; nor are the circumstances attendant on the destruction of Jerusalem more remarkable for the extent of the misery concomitant with its fall, than for the decisive proof they afford of the verity of those prophecies, which in that event were realised.

Whatever the world may feel disposed to think or say of the religious principles of Lord Byron, it would not be just in me to allow any opportunity of elucidating his sentiments on that subject, to escape me; and to his calumniators it is but proper to say, that he never entertained that latitude of principle they so liberally ascribe to him.

In the composition of the foregoing stanzas, he professed to me, that he had always considered the fall of Jerusalem, as the most remarkable event of all history; "for," (in his own words) " who can behold the entire destruction of that mighty pile; the desolate wanderings of its inhabitants, and compare these positive occurrences with the distant prophecies which foreran them, and be an infidel?”

I was struck at the moment with this remark, the more especially, perhaps, as at that very period, the press seemed to make common cause in admiration of his genius, and vituperation of his principles; and I feel pleasure in being enabled to do him this posthumous justice, by contradicting for him, that which I believe he was too proud and too confident in the noble integrity of his own heart to notice.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue waves roll nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd,
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron places before the imagination a powerful army arrayed in a warlike manner, with that pomp so prevalent in Eastern countries: the ferocious appearance of the cohorts is well defined; flushed with ardour and impetuosity in the conflict, till at last consigned to destruction, they lie lifeless on the field, and the horse and his rider are doomed to the same inevitable destruction.

At last, the stillness of death pervades the whole scene; the trumpet is no longer heard; the ostentatatious banners are lowered, and the idols of Baal are broken to pieces. The whole forms a fine picture of human life; we are ushered into this world; we experience the trials aud vicissitudes incident to human enjoyments, till death, that grim tyrant, puts a period to the whole.

I SPEAK NOT-I TRACE NOT.

I SPEAK not-I trace not-I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound-there were guilt in the fame, But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thought that dwells in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Where those hours can their joy or their bitterness cease, We repent-we abjure-we will break from our chain, We must part-we must fly to-unite it again.

Oh! thine be the gladness and mine be the guilt,
Forgive me adored one-forsake if thou wilt,
But the heart which I bear shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it-whatever thou mayest.

And stern to the haughty-but humble to thee,
My soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;