And silence held the lonely woods of Rome; The cymbal clanged, the deep-voiced trumpet spoke, And Salem spread her suppliant arms abroad, Viewed the descending flame, and blessed the present God. Nor shrunk she then, when, raging deep and Beat o'er her soul the billows of the proud. Who sadly told the slow-revolving years, And steeped the captive's bitter bread with tears: Yet oft their hearts with kindling hopes would burn, Their destined triumphs, and their glad return, And their sad lyres, which, silent and unstrung, In mournful ranks on Babel's willows hung, Would oft awake to chant their future fame, And from the skies their lingering Saviour claim. His promised aid could every fear control; This nerved the warrior's arm, this steeled the martyr's soul. Nor vain their hope :-Bright beaming through the sky, Burst in full blaze the Day-spring from on high. The dove's white wings celestial glory shed? And Mercy broods above the distant gloom. Thou palsied earth, with noonday night o'erspread, Thou sickening sun, so dark, so deep, so red, Are those his limbs, with ruthless scourges torn? Ye faithful few, by bold affection led, Who round the Saviour's cross your sorrows shed, Not for his sake your tearful vigils keep ;- Wide-wasting Plague, gaunt Famine, mad Despair, And dire Debate,and clamorous Strife was there: And spurn with fell delight their kindred slain; As 'mid the cedar courts, and gates of gold, Or pant, deep plunged beneath the sultry mine, For the light gales of balmy Palestine. Ah, fruitful now no more,-an empty coast, She mourned her sons enslaved, her glories lost. In her wide streets the lonely raven bred, There barked the wolf, and dire hyænas fed. Yet midst her towery fanes, in ruin laid, The pilgrim saint his murmuring vespers paid. 'Twas his to climb the tufted rocks, and rove The chequered twilight of the olive grove; 'T was his to bend beneath the sacred gloom, And wear with many a kiss Messiah's tomb; While forms celestial filled his tranced eye, The day-light dreams of pensive piety, O'er his still breast a tearful fervor stole, And softer sorrows charmed the mourner's soul. O, lives there one, who mocks his artless zeal? Too proud to worship, and too wise to feel? Be his the soul with wintry Reason blest, The dull, lethargic sovereign of the breast. Be his the life that creeps in dead repose, No joy that sparkles, and no tear that flows. Far other they who reared yon pompous shrine And bade the rock with Parian marble shine. Then hallowed Peace renewed her wealthy reign, Then altars smoked, and Sion smiled again. There sculptured gold and costly gems were seen, And all the bounties of the British queen; There barb'rous kings their sandaled nations led, And steel-clad champions bowed the crested head. |