The Apostles urge in vain their laboring bark;
No friendly moon, not e'en a star on high
Casts on their course its mild celestial eye.
See! near their ship that calm and awful form,
Who walks the waves, unheeding night and storm;
Far o'er the lake they see strange lustre gleam,
And round his head a lambent glory beam;
Shrinking in fear, with eyes that wildly stare,
They deem that form a spectre gliding there;
But, soft as music to the saint who dies,
Floats o'er Time's gulf from opening Paradise,
His voice now sounds along the troubled wave,
And calms their fears, the blessed One comes to save!
He who shall search for cities famed of yore, Few wrecks will find on lone Tabaria's shore: Where stood tower-crowned Chorazin, men forget; A palm-tree marks thy sight, Gennesaret. Tiberias, Herod's pride, still flaunteth fair, But not the cross, the crescent triumphs there; With zeal for Islam's creed men's bosoms burn, And brows to Mecca, not to Salem, turn. No more Bethsaida gleams across the flood; An ancient watch-tower tells where Magdal stood Clothed with green moss, Time's sad but fragrant
Many a dark bath extends its mouldering wall;
They sink to dust, yet Health still spreads his wings O'er the warm fountain's life-reviving springs.
ND this was proud Geraza, where the Jew,
Once lord of Gilead, only slavery knew;
Where Roman victors passed a life of ease,
Mid all that mind could charm, or sense could please :
They melted from the scene, -the Moslems came,
Pillaged the palace, wrapped the shrines in flame,
And searched the dead, and broke the coffin-lid,
Lured by the wealth which Jew or Christian hid.
They in their turn departed; long, long years
Have done their worst, Geraza still appears,
Queen-like and sad, on ruin gazing down,
No foe but Time, no subjects and no crown,
Her only guest Oblivion's shade, who keeps
Watch o'er the scene, while Rome's pale genius weeps.
Behold this Arch of Triumph! -reared to whom? No line declares, 't is lonely as a tomb;
Yet here the monarch passed, or man of war,
While shouts rang round, and laurels decked his car; We walk beneath, - Geraza rises near,
Not harsh the scene, not gloomy or severe,
But grandly beautiful, and softly mild,
Another Tadmor mourns upon the wild.
The broken statue, column worn and rent,
The tottering tower, the grass-grown monument,
Are mixed with fairer objects, — classic shrines,
Round which the row of rich-carved pillars shines,
And lengthened colonnades, like vistas seen
Narrowing to shadowy points in forests green.
Here spreads the huge Naumachia, where of old
Ships struck, in mimic fight, their beaks of gold;
That marble lake is dry, and flowerets fair,
And many a fragrant shrub, are blooming there.
The circus still displays its ample bound,
Where glittering chariots ran their dizzy round:
The theatres, all open to the sky,
In size and grace with those of Hellas vie;
The broad deep orchestra, the circling seat,
The vaulted gallery, now the bat's retreat,
Crushed arch, stage clothed with brambles,
The once fair haunt of Pleasure's bright-eyed queen.
One Angel knows it. O, might prayer avail
To win that knowledge; sure each holy vow
Less quickly from the unstable soul would fade,
Offered where Christ in agony was laid.
Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood
That from his aching brow by moonlight fell,
Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood,
Till they had framed within a guardian spell
To chase repining fancies, as they rise,
Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice.
So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams;
Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o'erflow,
Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams
From thy dear name, where in his page of woe It shines, a pale kind star in winter's sky? Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen him die. John Keble.
THE
HE moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow,
Set with the morning-star, was not yet dim;
And the deep silence which subdues the breath
Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world
As sleep upon the pulses of a child.
'T was the last watch of night. Gethsemane, With its bathed leaves of silver, seemed dissolved
In visible stillness; and as Jesus' voice,
With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear
Of his disciples, it vibrated on
Like the first whisper in a silent world.
They came on slowly. Heaviness oppressed
The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses
Of his deep love were poured, he felt the need
Of near communion, for his gift of strength
Was wasted by the spirit's weariness.
He left them there, and went a little on,
And in the depth of that hushed silentness,
Alone with God, he fell upon his face,
And as his heart was broken with the rush
Of his surpassing agony, and death,
Wrung to him from a dying universe,"
Was mightier than the Son of man could bear,
He gave his sorrows way, and in the deep
Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer,
"Father, if it be possible with thee,
Let this cup pass from me." O, how a word,
Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks,
Stilleth the press of human agony!
The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul;
And though his strength was weakness, and the light
Which led him on till now was sorely dim,
"Not my will,
Ile breathed a new submission.
But thine be done, O Father!" As he spoke,
Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole
Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky
As if the stars were swept like instruments.
No cloud was visible, but radiant wings
Were coming with a silvery rush to earth,
And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one,
With an illumined forehead, and the light
Whose fountain is the mystery of God,
Encalmed within his eye, bowed down to him,
And nerved him with a ministry of strength.
It was enough, — and with his godlike brow
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