How weak is man! how frail his best resolves!
But frailest those which owe their hasty birth
To fear; how short, how transient is their life.
Hardly obtain'd, they shine but like the sparks
Struck from the flint, which scarce outlive the blow.
Ev'n thus, or ere the fortieth sun had set,
The dreaded sentence seem'd an idle dream,
And the full tide of sin, awhile restrain'd,
Rush'd madly forward with redoubled force,
Precluding ev'ry hope of future grace.
That Heav'n should find it easier to forgive
Than wayward man alas to be forgiv'n!
But Oh unhappy state! Oh desperate race!
A sterner prophet, Israel's Comforter,
Hath dipp'd his pen in blood to write thy doom.
Too deep the reeking sword shall strike, too near
To trifle with its edge; again 'tis drawn,
And never, never shall be sheath'd, 'till wide
It spreads destruction o'er thy plains, nor leaves
A hand to bury or an eye to weep.
Hark where the conqu'ring Mede with furious voice Calls loud for help. Stern Babylon replies;
Together roll their rattling chariots on,
Their blended armies gather as they run,
And brandishing their eager falchions high,
Impetuous rush like lions on their prey.
They come, they come, lo where thy weak hosts fly,
Nor fly in safety; see they sink, they fall,
Fall like ripe fruit, or yellow autumn leaves,
And strew the victor's path. Lost in amaze
Thy hardy vet'rans stand to see such feats
As turn their bloodiest wars to childish frays;
And ever and anon with anguish pierc'd,
"Stand, stand," they faintly cry, but none regards;
"Turn, dastard slaves," but no one will look back.
Frantic with fear they lose the pow'r to raise
One warding shield to break the victor's stroke:
Th' ensanguin'd field alone with carnage strew'd
Awhile impedes their eager way. But now,
Through scenes of horror bursting, at thy walls
A thousand banners wave, and purple spears
Unnumber'd press; vainly thy ports are barr'd,
Thy strong tow'rs mann'd with many a hardy chief,
Vain thy strong holds, vain all thy ancient might,
For lo the rapid flood impetuous swells,
And Desolation, borne upon its waves
In dreadful pomp, invades thy tott'ring wall,
And rides in horrid triumph through the breach.
Remembrance now calls forth the flatt'ring tale
Prophetic, which thy sage forefathers told,
Your wise men sighing shake their hoary heads,
Foreboding now th' unlook'd for time is come
When the proud stream shall lift her rebel waves
Against those sacred walls, which grace her shore.
And now thy bulwarks nod, they bow, they fall,
Low, low on earth thy prostrate glory lies.
Now rooted from their base, the sculptur'd dome,
The stately column, and the storied arch,
In awful ruin lie; whilst ruthless war,
The keen scythe snatching from the hand of Time,
With speedier rage to deal destruction round,
Levels the work of ages at a blow;
Nor one proud track of ancient glory leaves,
Save what the rolls of mem'ry may supply
Uncertain, or the eye inquisitive
Trace from the mould'ring heaps of scatter'd pride,
As through thy grass-grown streets with fearful tread
The trav❜ler strays, casting a wary look,
Lest basking in the sculptur'd cornice lurk
The slimy adder or the mottled snake,
And starting hears the horrid nightbird's scream
From off the gilded chapiter resound
With lonely echo through the moss-grown walls.
Thus blasted in its very noon of pride
Falls the weak state whose tott'ring base is laid
Unstable in the sand of human pow'r.
And mark her fall, ye gen'rous band, who claim
The honour'd name of patriot, mark it well,
And let it grave this lesson on your heart:
"They raise a nation's strength alone, who raise
A nation's virtue;" think how weak, how vain
Proves every state which boasts not her support;
Like the mysterious gourd, beneath whose shade
The prophet sat, it blossoms for a day;
But deep within its canker'd root conceal'd
The worm of sin with ever-rankling tooth
Preys on its vital part: unmark'd, unseen
The inbred venom works, till drooping fast,
Its blushing honours sinking to the dust,
It fades forgot, nor leaves to after times
The precious odour of a good report.
Abraham buried Sarah his wife in the cave of the field of Machpelah.-GENESIS xxiii. 19.
DEEP wrapt in shades,
Olive and terebinth, its vaulted door
Fleck'd with the untrained vine and matted grass,
Behold Machpelah's cave.
A voice of weeping? Lo yon aged man
Bendeth beside his dead. Wave after wave
Of memory rises, till his lonely heart
Sees all its treasures floating in the flood
Like rotten weeds.
The earliest dawn of love
Is present with him, and a form of grace,
Whose beauty held him ever in its thrall:
And then the morn of marriage, gorgeous robes,
And dulcet music, and the rites that bless
The Eastern bride. Full many a glowing scene,
Made happy by her tenderness, returns
To mock his solitude, as the sharp lance
Severs the quiv'ring nerve. His quiet home
Gleams through the oaks of Mamre.
Rendering due rites of hospitality
To guests who bore the folded wing of Heaven
Beneath their vestments.
When her clustering curls
Wore Time's chill hoar-frost, with what glad surprise,
What holy triumph of exulting faith,
He saw fresh blooming in her withered arms
A fair young babe, the heir of all his wealth.
For ever blending with that speechless joy
Which thrilled his soul, when first a father's name
Fell on his ear, is that pale, placid brow
Another semblance, tinged with hues of thought,
Perchance unlovely, in that trial hour
When to sad Hagar's mute, reproachful eye
He answer'd naught, but on her shoulder laid
The water-bottle and the loaf, and sent
Her and her son, unfriended wanderers, forth
Into the wilderness.
Say, who can mourn
Over the smitten idol, by long years
Cemented with his being, yet perceive
No dark remembrance that he fain would blot,
Troubling the tear? If there were no kind deed
Omitted, no sweet healing word of love
Expected, yet unspoken; no light tone,
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