No! the words of Christ will run, That hast thou done to me!" Anonymous. Jerusalem. THE CRUSADERS BEFORE JERUSALEM. THE purple morning left her crimson bed, 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; Jerusalem they view, they see, they spy; As when a troop of jolly sailors row, They all salute it with a joyful cry, To that delight which their first sight did breed, That reverend fear and trembling with it brought. Scantly they durst their feeble eyes dispread · Upon that town, where Christ was sold and bought, 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 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, This while the wary watchman looked over, From tops of Sion's towers, the hills 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, O, what a dust ariseth! O, how it shines with shields and targets clear! Up, up, to arms, for valiant heart despiseth Torquato Tasso. Tr. E. Fairfax. ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS. ROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome FROM 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, On many an eve the high spot whence I gazed 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 Lord Byron. As STEPHEN'S MARTYRDOM. S rays around the source of light So on the King of Martyrs wait One presses on, and welcomes death; And some, the darlings of their Lord, Foremost and nearest to his throne, |