214

Let us Depart!

But a fearful sound was heard
In that old fane's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rushed by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!”

Within the fated city

E'en then fierce discord raved,
Though o'er night's heaven the comet-sword
Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare
Through the dark streets ringing high,
Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh;

Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host

Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard
In the Temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rushed by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
"Let us depart!"

But within the fated city

There was revelry that night—
The wine-cup and the timbrel note,
And the blaze of banquet-light.

The footsteps of the dancer

Went bounding through the hall,
And the music of the dulcimer

Summoned to festival:

The Prayer in the Wilderness.
While the clash of brother-weapons
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates
Lay down in their despair;

And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple's thrilling heart,
As if mighty wings rushed by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

215

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGGIO'S.

N the deep wilderness unseen she prayed,

IN

The daughter of Jerusalem; alone

With all the still, small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,

And with her God, alone: she lifted up

Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head,
The dark leaves thrilled with prayer-the tearful prayer
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love.

Father of Spirits, hear!

Look on the inmost heart to thee revealed,
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unsealed!

216

The Prayer in the Wilderness.

Hear, Father! hear, and aid!

If I have loved too well, if I have shed,

In my vain fondness, c'er a mortal head,
Gifts on thy shrine, my God! more fitly laid;

If I have sought to live

But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,

Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!

Chastened and schooled at last,

No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But, fixed on thee, from that wild worship turns—
What have I said ?—the deep dream is not past!

Yet hear!-if still I love,

Oh! still too fondly-if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes my heart between
And thy calm glory, Father! throned above;

If still a voice is near

(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control),
An earthly voice disquieting my soul
With its deep music, too intensely dear;

O Father! draw to thee

My lost affections back!—the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist-sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!

I must love on, O'God!

This bosom must love on!—but let thy breath
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death,
Bearing it up to heaven-love's own abode !

The Two Monuments.

Ages and ages past, the wilderness,

217

With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God!

THE TWO MONUMENTS.

"Oh! bless'd are they who live and die like ‘him,
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!"
-WORDSWORTH.

B

ANNERS hung drooping from on high

In a dim cathedral's nave,

Making a gorgeous canopy

O'er a noble, noble grave!

Triumph yet lingered in his eye,
Ere by the dark night sealed;
And his head was pillowed haughtily
On standard and on shield.

218

The Two Monuments.

And shadowing that proud trophy-pile
With the glory of his wing,

An eagle sat-yet seemed the while
Panting through heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shivered lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorned the ground.

And a burning flood of gem-like hues
From a storied window poured,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.

A flood of hues—but one rich dye
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.

Meet was that robe for him whose name

Was a trumpet-note in war,

His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle-star.

But faintly, tenderly was thrown,
From the coloured light, one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial-stone
By the couch of glory lay.

Few were the fond words chiselled there,

Mourning for parted worth;

But the very heart of love and prayer

Had given their sweetness forth.