A voice against all people of the land! Woe! woe! woe!
They are the very words, the very voice
Which we have heard so long. And yet, methinks,
There is a mournful triumph in the tone
Ne'er heard before. His eyes, that were of old
Fix'd on the earth, now wander all abroad,
As though the tardy consummation
Afflicted him with wonder-Hark! again.
CHORUS OF MAIDENS.
Now the jocund song is thine,
Bride of David's kingly line!
How thy dove-like bosom trembleth,
And thy shrouded eye resembleth
Violets, when the dews of eve
A moist and tremulous glitter leave
On the bashful sealed lid!
Close within the bride-veil hid,
Motionless thou sit'st, and mute;
Save that at the soft salute
Of each entering maiden friend
Thou dost rise and softly bend.
Hark! a brisker, merrier glee!
The door unfolds, 't is he, 't is he.
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him,
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him.
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting,
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting.
Why hearken, then-Upon a sudden
The pavement seem'd to swell beneath my feet,
And the Veil shiver'd, and the pillars rock'd.
And there, within the very Holy of Holies,
There, from behind the winged Cherubim,
Where the Ark stood, a noise, hurried and tumultuous,
Was heard, as when a king with all his host
Doth quit his palace. And anon, a voice,
Or voices, half in grief, half anger, yet
Nor human grief nor anger, even it seem'd
As though the hoarse and rolling thunder spake
With the articulate voice of man, it said,
A voice from the East! a voice from the West!
From the four winds a voice against Jerusalem!
A voice against the Temple of the Lord!
A voice against the Bridegrooms and the Brides!
A voice against all people of the land!
Woe! woe!- -[Bursts away, followed by Second Jew. And fled.
To the outer wall;
And there he suddenly cried out and sternly,
"A voice against the son of Hananiah!
Woe, woe!" and at the instant, whether struck
By a chance stone from the enemy's engines, down
He sank and died!-
Most terrible! What follow'd?
As though an outcast from the abandon'd Temple,
Oh God! and Father of our Fathers,
Ay, ye are met, all met, as in a mart,
T'exchange against each other your dark tales
Of this night's fearful prodigies. I know it,
By the inquisitive and half-suspicious looks
With which ye eye each other, ye do wish
There's some one comes this way- To disbelieve all ye have heard, and yet
Ye dare not. If ye have seen the moon unsphered,
The same!-We had gone forth in quest of food:
And we had enter'd many a house, where men
Were preying upon meagre herbs and skins;
And some were sating upon loathsome things
Unutterable, the ravening hunger. Some,
Whom we had plunder'd oft, laugh'd in their agony
To see us baffled. At her door she met us,
And "We have feasted together heretofore,"
When the horn summons to the morning's war,
From out your drowsy beds-Away! I say.
Simon, thou knowst not the dark signs abroad.
Ay! is't not fearful and most ominous
That the sun shines not at deep midnight? Mark me,
Ye men with gasping lips and shivering limbs,
Thou mitred priest, and ye misnamed warriors,
If ye infect with your pale aguish fears
Our valiant city, we'll nor leave you limbs
To shake, nor voices to complain-T" your homes.
In truth, good Simon, I am half your proselyte;
Your angels, that do bear such excellent wine,
Might shake a faith more firm than ours.
My soul is jocund. Expectation soars
Before mine eyes, like to a new-fledged eagle,
And stoopeth from her heavens with palms ne'er worn
By brows of Israel. Glory mounts with her,
She said, "most welcome warriors!" and she led us, Her deep seraphic trumpet swelling loud
And bade us sit like dear and honour'd guests,
While she made ready. Some among us wonder'd,
And some spake jeeringly, and thank'd the lady
That she had thus with provident care reserved
The choicest banquet for our scarcest days.
But ever as she busily minister'd,
Quick, sudden sobs of laughter broke from her.
At length the vessel's covering she raised up,
And there it lay-
What lay?-Thou 'rt sick and pale.
By earth and heaven, the remnant of a child!
A human child!-Ay, start! so started we-
Whereat she shriek'd aloud, and clapp'd her hands,
"O! dainty and fastidious appetites!
The mother feasts upon her babe, and strangers
Loathe the repast"--and then-"My beautiful child!"
The treasure of my womb! my bosom's joy!"
And then in her cool madness did she spurn us
Out of her doors.-Oh still-oh still I hear her,
And I shall hear her till my day of death.
HIGH-PRIEST.
Oh, God of Mercies! this was once thy city!
Joy to thee, beautiful and bashful Bride!
Joy! for the thrills of pride and joy become thee;
Thy curse of barrenness is taken from thee,
And thou shalt see the rosy infant sleeping
Upon the snowy fountain of thy breast;
And thou shalt feel how mothers' hearts are blest
By hours of bliss for moments' pain and weeping.
Joy to thee!
Away! what do ye in our midnight streets
Go sleep! go sleep! or we shall have to lash you,
O'er Zion's gladdening towers.
Why, then, to sleep.
This fight by day, and revel all the night,
Needs some repose-I'll to my bed-Farewell!
Brave John, farewell! and I'll to rest, and dream
Upon the coming honours of to-morrow.
To-morrow! will that morrow dawn upon thee?
I've warn'd them, I have lifted up my voice
As loud as 't were an angel's, and well nigh
Had I betray'd my secret: they but scoff'd,
And ask'd how long I had been a prophetess?
But that injurious John did foully taunt me,
As though I envied my lost sister's bridal.
And when I clung to my dear father's neck,
With the close fondness of a last embrace,
He shook me from him.
But, ah me! how strange!
This moment, and the hurrying streets were full
As at a festival, now all 's so silent
That I might hear the footsteps of a child.
The sound of dissolute mirth hath ceased, the lamps
Are spent, the voice of music broken off.
No watchman's tread comes from the silent wall,
There are nor lights nor voices in the towers.
The hungry have given up the idle search
For food, the gazers on the heavens are gone,
Even fear's at rest-all still as in a sepulchre!
And thou liest sleeping, oh Jerusalem!
A deeper slumber could not fall upon thee
If thou wert desolate of all thy children,
And thy razed streets a dwelling-place for owls.
I do mistake! this is the Wilderness,
The Desert, where winds pass and make no sound,
And not the populous city, the besieged
And overhung with tempest. Why, my voice,
My motion, breaks upon the oppressive stillness
Like a forbidden and disturbing sound.
The very air's asleep, my feeblest breathing
Is audible—I'll think my prayers-and then-
-Ha! 'tis the thunder of the Living God!
It peals! it crashes! it comes down in fire!
Again! it is the engine of the foe,
Our walls are dust before it-Wake-oh wake-
Oh Israel!-Oh Jerusalem, awake!
Why shouldst thou wake? thy foe is in the heavens.
Yea, thy judicial slumber weighs thee down,
And gives thee, oh! lost city, to the Gentile
Defenceless, unresisting.
As though the Everlasting raged not now
Against our guilty Zion, but did mingle
The universal world in our destruction;
And all mankind were destined for a sacrifice
On Israel's funeral pile. Oh Crucified!
Here, here, where thou didst suffer, I beseech thee
Even by thy Cross!
Hark! now in impious rivalry Man thunders. In the centre of our streets The Gentile trumpet, the triumphant shouts Of onset; and I,—I, a trembling girl Alone, awake, abroad.
Now ye pour forth, and hideous Massacre,
Loathing his bloodless conquest, joys to see you
Thus naked and unarm'd-But where's my father?
Upon his couch in dreams of future glory.
Oh! where's my sister? in her bridal bed.
To the Temple! To the Temple! Israel! Israel!
Your walls are on the earth, your houses burn
Like fires amid the autumnal olive grounds.
The Gentile's in the courts of the Lord's house.
To the Temple! save or perish with the Temple!
To the Temple! haste, oh all ye circumcised! Stay not for wife or child, for gold or treasure! Pause not for light! the heavens are all on fire, The Universal City burns!
Our women fall like doves into the nets
Of the fowler, and they dash upon the stones
Our innocent babes. Arms! Arms! before we die
Let's reap a bloody haryest of revenge.
To the Temple!
Simon! lo, the valiant Simon.
He comes! he comes! the black night blackens with
And the winds groan beneath his chariot wheels
He comes from heaven, the Avenger of Jerusalem!
Ay, strike, proud Roman! fall, thou useless wall!
And vail your heads, ye towers, that have discharged
Your brief, your fruitless duty of resistance.
I've heard thee long, fierce Gentile! th' earthquake
shocks
Of thy huge engines smote upon my soul,
And my soul scorn'd them. Oh! and hear'st not thou One mightier than thyself that shakes the heavens?
Oh pardon, that I thought that He, whose coming
Is promised and reveal'd, would calmly wait
The tardy throes of human birth. Messiah,
I know thee now, I know yon lightning fire,
Thy robe of glory, and thy steps in heaven
Incessant thundering.
I had brought mine arms,
Mine earthly arms, my breastplate and my sword,
To cover and defend me-Oh! but thou
Art jealous, nor endurest that human arm
Intrude on thy deliverance. I forswear them,
I cast them from me. Helmless, with nor shield
Nor sword, I stand, and in my nakedness
Wait thee, victorious Roman-
Ay, well thou say'st, "to the Temple"-there 't will be
Most visible. In his own house the Lord
Will shine most glorious. Shall we not behold
The Fathers bursting from their yielding graves,
Patriarchs and Priests, and Kings and Prophets, met
A host of spectral watchmen, on the towers
Of Zion to behold the full accomplishing
Of every Type and deep Prophetic word?
Ay, to the Temple! thither will I too,
There bask in all the fulness of the day
That breaks at length o'er the long night of Judah.
Chorus, of Jews flying towards the temple.
Fly! fly! fly!
Clouds, not of incense, from the Temple rise,
And there are altar-fires, but not of sacrifice.
And there are victims, yet nor bulls nor goats;
And Priests are there, but not of Aaron's kin;
And he that doth the murtherous rite begin,
To stranger Gods his hecatomb devotes ;
His hecatomb of Israel's chosen race
All foully slaughter'd in their Holy Place.
Break into joy, ye barren, that ne'er bore! (20)
Rejoice, ye breasts, where ne'er sweet infant hung!
From you, from you no smiling babes are wrung,
Ye die, but not amid your children's gore.
But howl and weep, oh ye that are with child,
Ye on whose bosoms unwean'd babes are laid;
The sword that 's with the mother's blood defiled
Still with the infant gluts the insatiate blade.
Fly! fly! fly!
Fly not, I say, for Death is every where,
To keen-eyed Lust all places are the same: There's not a secret chamber in whose lair
Our wives can shroud them from th' abhorred
Where the sword fails, the fire will find us there, All, all is death-the Gentile or the flame.
On to the Temple! Brethren, Israel on!
Though every slippery street with carnage swims, Ho! spite of famish'd hearts and wounded limbs, Still, still, while yet there stands one holy stone, Fight for your God, his sacred house to save, Or have its blazing ruins for your grave!
The Streets of Jerusalem.
Thou hard firm earth, thou wilt not break before me,
And hide me in thy dark and secret bosom!
Ye burning towers, ye fall upon your children
With a compassionate ruin—not on me—
Ye spare me only, I alone am mark'd
Was shaken off, as with a patient pity He look'd on us, the infuriate multitude. MIRIAM.
Didst thou not fall and worship?
I had call'd The curse upon my head, my voice had cried Unto the Roman, "On us be his blood, And on our children!"—and on us it hath beenMy children and my children's children, all, The Gentile sword hath reap'd them one by one, And I, the last dry wither'd shock, await The gleaning of the slaughterer.
The Cross, the Agony, and still hard of heart?
Fond child, I tell thee, ere the Cross was raised
And seal'd for life: death cruelly seems to shun me, He look'd around him, even in that last anguish,
Me, who am readiest and most wish to die.
Oh! I have sat me by the ghastly slain
In envy of their state, and wept a prayer
That I were cold like them, and safe from th' hands
Of the remorseless conqueror. I have fled,
And fled, and fled, and still I fly the nearer
To the howling ravagers-they are every where.
I've closed mine eyes, and rush'd I know not whither,
And still are swords and men and furious faces
Before me, and behind me, and around me.
With such a majesty of calm compassion,
Such solemn adjuration to our souls-
But yet 't was not reproachful, only sad-
As though our guilt had been the bitterest pang
Of suffering. And there dwelt about him still,
About his drooping head and fainting limb,
A sense of power; as though he chose to die,
Yet might have shaken off the load of death
Without an effort. Awful breathlessness
But ah! the shrieks that come from out the dwell- Spread round, too deep and too intense for tears. ings
Maiden, I believe them,
I dare not disbelieve; it is my curse,
My agony, that cleaves to me in death.
Oh! not a curse, it is a gracious blessing
Believe, and thou shalt live!
What! wouldst thou school these grey hairs, and be
Hath not God ordain'd
Wisdom from babes and sucklings?
I have lived a faithful child of Abraham,
For ever! He is gone,
Yet he looks round, and shakes his hoary head
In dreadful execration 'gainst himself
And me I dare not follow him.
What's here?
It is mine home, the dwelling of my youth,
O'er which the flames climb up with such fierce haste.
Lo, lo! they burst from that house-top, where oft
My sister and myself have sate and sang
Our pleasant airs of gladness! Ah, Salone!
When, even as though he heard a voice, and yet
There was no sound I heard, he sprung from me
Unto the chamber-door, and he look'd out
Into the city-
Thy insufficient raiment-Merciful Heaven,
Thy bosom bleeds! What rash and barbarous hand
Hath-
He came back and kiss'd me, and he saidI know not what he said-but there was something Of Gentile ravisher, and his beauteous bride,Me, me he meant, he call'd me beauteous bride,And he stood o'er me with a sword so bright My dazzled eyes did close. And presently, Methought, he smote me with the sword, but then He fell upon my neck, and wept upon me, And I felt nothing but his burning tears.
She faints! Look up, sweet sister! I have stanch'd The blood awhile-but her dim wandering eyes Are fixing—she awakes--she speaks again.
Ah! brides, they say, should be retired, and dwell
Within in modest secresy; yet here
Where art thou now? These, these are not the lights Am I, a this night's bride, in the open street,
Slumber is on my soul. If Amariah
Return with morning, glorious and adorn'd
In spoil, as he is wont, thou 'It wake me, sister?
-Ah! no, no, no! this is no waking sleep.
It bursts upon me-Yes, and Simon's daughter,
The bride of Amariah, may not fear,
Nor shrink from dying. My half-failing spirit
Comes back, my soft love-melted heart is strong:
I know it all, in mercy and in love
Thou'st wounded me to death-and I will bless thee,
True lover! noble husband! my last breath
Is thine in blessing-Amariah!-Love!
|