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The Son of the Unnamed, the Everlasting,
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THE VOICE OF RAMA.
EARD ye, from Rama's ruined walls,
That voice of bitter weeping ! Is it the moan of fettered slave,
His watch of sorrow keeping ?
That cry of lamentation !
For Salem's devastation ?
a sorer ill than chains That bitter wail is waking, And deeper woe than Salem's fall
That tortured heart is breaking : 'Tis Rachel, of her sons bereft,
Who lifts that voice of weeping ; And childless are the eyes that there
Their watch of grief are keeping.
O, who shall tell what fearful pangs
That mother's heart are rending,
As o'er her infant's little grave
Her wasted form is bending;
Delight may beam to-morrow;
And what remains but sorrow ?
Bereavéd one! I may not chide
Thy tears and bitter sobbing,
And still that bosom's throbbing :
To whom no hope is given,
George Washington Doane,
RUINS OF SEBASTE.
On yon steep mount what whitening relics lie?
Calm on their tops the raven folds his wing,
But Christian relics, too, are rising near ; Shall not yon moss-grown fane the heart revere? The massy buttress and the solid tower Reluctant yield to Time's o’erwhelming power; No more shall sound beneath those arches dim, The voice of prayer, the holy choral hymn; No more the priest his burning censer swing, Or the soul mount on rapt Devotion's wing. Helena ! peace to thee, whose pious hand With Christian shrines thus decked this sainted land; Bright on thy memory honor's beams be shed ! As amaranths now adorn thine angel head.
- SILOAM, THE POOL OF. 227
And Jacob's Well, tradition guards and keeps. Though gone the shrine which graced the holy hill, Green wave the woods on high Gerizim still: Soft pipes the lonely bird at dying day, Where incense rolled, and priests were wont to pray, And Ebal, towering north of Shechem's vale, Lifts its wild rocks, and echoes back the tale ; Each knoll in emerald mantle seems arrayed, And countless rills make music through the shade.
Siloam, the Pool of.
THE POOL OF SILOAM.
But bloomed of yore the “ Garden of the Kings”; Ye reach an opening pierced in Ophel's side, While high beyond the huge mosque lifts its pride, 'T is cool Siloan's fount; when palms grew round, Here Jewish minstrels woke their harps' sweet sound, And Hebrew sages, on these rocks reclined,
Taught listening crowds, and scattered pearls of mind,
Sodom and Gomorrah.
THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN.
(ET ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day!
Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away! ’T is the vintage of blood, 't is the fulness of time, And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime!”