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No! the words of Christ will run,
“Whatsoever thou hast done
To this poor and suffering one,
That last thou done to me!”





HE purple morning left her crimson bed,

And donned her robes of pure vermilion hue; Her amber locks she crowned with roses red,

In Eden's flowery gardens gathered new ; When through the camp a murmur shrill was spread:

Arm, arm, they cried; arm, arm, the trumpets blew; Their merry noise prevents the joyful blast; So hum small bees, before their swarms they cast.

Their captain rules their courage, guides their heat,

Their forwardness he stayed with gentle rein;
And yet more easy, haply, were the feat

To stop the current near Charybdis' main,
Or calm the blustering winds on mountains great,

Than fierce desires of warlike hearts restrain ; He rules them yet, and ranks them in their haste, For well he knows disordered speed makes waste.

Feathered their thoughts, their feet in wings were dight,

Swiftly they marched, yet were not tired thereby,

For willing minds make heaviest burdens light;

But when the gliding sun was mounted high, Jerusalem, behold, appeared in sight,

Jerusalem they view, they see, they spy; Jerusalem with merry noise they greet, With joyful shouts, and acclamations sweet.

As when a troop of jolly sailors row,

Some new-found land and country to descry; Through dangerous seas and under stars unknow,

Thrall to the faithless waves and trothless sky;
If once the wished shore begin to show,

They all salute it with a joyful cry,
And each to other show the land in haste,
Forgetting quite their pains and perils past.

To that delight which their first sight did breed,

That pleased so the secret of their thought, A deep repentance did forth with succeed,

That reverend fear and trembling with it brought. Scantly they durst their feeble eyes dispread

· Upon that town, where Christ was sold and bougit, Where for our sins he, faultless, suffered pain, There where he died, and where he lived again.

Soft words, low speech, deep sobs, sweet sighs, salt tears,

Rose from their breasts, with joy and pleasure mixt; For thus fares he the Lord aright that fears,

Fear on devotion, joy on faith is fixt: Such noise their passions make, as when one hears

The hoarse sea-waves roar hollow rocks betwixt;

Or as the wind in hoults and shady greaves
A murmur makes, among the boughs and leaves.
Their naked feet trod on the dusty way,

Following the ensample of their zealous guide; Their scarfs, their crests, their plumes, and feathers gay,

They quickly. doft, and willing laid aside; Their moulten hearts their wonted pride allay,

Along their watery cheeks warm tears down slide, And then such secret speech as this, they used, While to himself each one himself accused :

Flower of goodness, root of lasting bliss,

Thou well of life, whose streams were purple blood That flowed here, to cleanse the foul amiss

Of sinful man, behold this brinish flood,
That from my melting heart distilled is;

Receive in gree these tears, O Lord so good,
For never wretch with sin so overgone,
llad fitter time or greater cause to moan.
This while the wary watchman looked over,

From tops of Sion's towers, the bills and dales,
And saw the dust the fields and pastures cover,

As when thick mists arise from moory vales: At last the sun-bright shields he 'gan discover,

And glistering helms, for violence none that fails; The metal shone like lightning bright in skies, And man and horse amid the dust descries.

Then loud he cries, 0, what a dust ariseth!.

O, how it shines with shields and targets clear !

Up, up, to arms, for valiant heart despiseth

The threatened storm of death, and danger near ; Behold your foes : then further thus deviseth ;

Haste, haste, for vain delay encreaseth fear; These horrid clouds of dust, that yonder fly, Your coming foes do hide, and hide the sky.

Torquato Tasso. Tr. E. Fairfax.



TROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome

I beheld thee, O Sion, when rendered to Rome: ’T was thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy

fall Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.

I looked for thy Temple, I looked for my home,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ;
I beheld but the deathfire that fed on thy fane,
And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in


On many an eve the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy


And now on that mountain I stood on that day, But I marked not the twilight beam melting away!

O, would that the lightning had glared in its stead, And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head !

But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdained not to reign;
And scattered and scored as thy people may be,
Our worship, O Father, is only for thee.

Lord Byron.


Arays around the source of light


Stream upward ere he glow in sight,
And watching by his future flight

Set the clear heavens on fire;
So on the King of Martyrs wait
Three chosen bands, in royal state,
And all earth owns, of good and great,

Is gathered in that choir.

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One presses on, and welcomes death;
One calmly yields his willing breath,
Nor slow, nor hurrying, but in faith

Content to die or live:
And some, the darlings of their Lord,
Play smiling with the flame and sword,
And, ere they speak, to his sure word

Unconscious witness give.

Foremost and nearest to his throne,
By perfect robes of triumph known

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