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WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY
WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay,
But leaves its darken'd dust behind.
By steps each planet's heavenly way?
Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,
A thought unseen, but seeing all,
In one broad glance the soul beholds,
Before Creation peopled earth,
Its eye shall roll through chaos back;
And where the future mars or makes,
Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear,
O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly,
Forgetting what it was to die.
VISION OF BELSIIAZZAR.
THE King was on his throne,
In Judah deem'd divine-
The godless Heathen's wine!
In that same hour and hall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man ;—
Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
The monarch saw, and shook,
Chaldea's seers are good,
But here they have no skill; And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age
Are wise and deep in lore;
But now they were not sage,
They saw-but knew no more.
A captive in the land,
A stranger and a youth,
"Belshazzar's grave is made,
The Persian on his throne!"
SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS!
SUN of the sleepless! melancholy star!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;
WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST
IT TO BE.
WERE my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,
The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race.
If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee!
I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know; In his hand is my heart and my hope-and in thine The land and the life which for him I resign.
HIEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.6
OH, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony,
And wild remorse to rage succeeding.
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah! could'st thou-thou would'st pardon now,
And is she dead?—and did they dare
The sword that smote her's o'er me waving.
But thou art cold, my murder'd love!
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
She's gone, who shared my diadem;
And I have earn'd those tortures well,
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS.
FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome,
I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home,
On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.