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THE CAPTIVE JEWS IN BABYLON.
LET the hroad veil of darkness be rollid from before thee,
Oh, Lord ! and descend on the wings of the storm ! Dispersed or enslaved are the saints that adore thee,
And the rude hands of strangers thy temple deform; And Salem, our Salem, lies low and degraded,
While far from her ruins in exile we pine ; Yet still is the hope of thy “remnant” unfaded
The hand which implants it, Jehovah, is thine !
Alas! we were warn’d, but we reck'd not the warning,
Till our warriors grew weak in the day of despair ; And our glory was fled, as the light cloud of morning,
That gleams for a moment, and melts into air. As the proud heathens trampled o'er Zion's sad daughter,
She wept tears of blood in her guilt and her woe; For the voice of her God had commission'd the slaughter;
The rod of his vengeance had pointed the blow.
Though foul are the sins, oh, thou lost one! which stain
thee, The tear of repentance can wash them away ; Though galling and base are the bonds that enchain thee,
The God who imposed them can lighten their sway :
For a star yet shall rise o'er the darkness of Judah,
A branch yet shall flourish on Jesse's proud stem ; And Zion shall triumph o'er those that subdued her,
Yea! triumph in giving a Saviour to them !
As the ample moon,
Now I gain the mountain's brow,
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Below me trees unnumber'd rise, Beautiful in various dyes ; The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beech, the sable yew, The slender fir, that taper grows, The sturdy oak, with broad-spread boughs; And beyond the purple grove, Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love,
Gaudy as the op'ning dawn,
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ;
WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
Say, watchman, what of the night?
Do the dews of the morning fall ? Have the orient skies a border of light,
Like the fringe of a funeral pall ?
“ The night is fast waning on high,
And soon shall the darkness flee, And the morn shall spread o'er the blushing sky,
And bright shall its glories be."
But, watchman, what of the night,
When sorrow and pain are mine,
No longer around me shine ?
“ That night of sorrow thy soul
May surely prepare to meet, But
away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll, And the morning of joy be sweet."
But, watchman, what of that night,
When the arrow of death is sped, And the grave, which no glimmering star can light,
Shall be my sleeping-bed ?