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Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
For the Angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
Song of the Captive Jews at Babylon.
OD of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat GI
The fiery winds of desolation flow;
Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below;
Till Thou the guilty land hast sealed for woe.
THE CAPTIVE JEWS AT BABYLON.
God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign
The billows of the proud their rage suppress;
An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness;
And pillar'd temples rise thy name to bless.
O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord;
The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate ;
E'en her foes wept to see her fallen state.
For thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate.
O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall gleam,
And the sad city lift her crownless head;
Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead.
And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.
Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand,
And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves;
Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves.
Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves.
The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;
Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy
Yet ere he die to Salem's streets shall come ; And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear; And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate dome.
HENRY HART MILMAN.
Lines written on reading an argument to prove that the Irish were de scended from the Jews.
TES, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling,
In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heartIf drinking deep, deep, of the same “ cup of trembling,"
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.
Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken,
And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, desolation hath spoken,
And “while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."
Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Remember the bright things that blessed them of old.
Ah, well may we call her, like thee, “the forsaken,"
Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves ; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,
Have tones ’mid their mirth like the wind over graves !
BUT WHO SHALL SEE ?
Yet hadst thou thy vengeance—yet came there the morrow,
That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the scepter that smote thee with slavery and sorrow
Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.
When that cup, which for others the proud golden city
Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.
When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover, The Lady of kingdoms lay low in the dust.
But Who Shall See?
UT who shall see the glorious day
When, throned on Zion's brow,
Which hides the nations now?
Of his rebuke shall lie ;
Be wiped from every eye.
Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn
Beneath the heathen's chain ;
And all be new again.
In peace, by all who come;
wind that blows shall waft
Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's
In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago,
And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous.
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy;
Thou hast a tongue-come--let us hear its tune;
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon-
Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame?
Of either pyramid that bears his name?
Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy tradeThen say what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a priest--if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass; Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat;
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass;