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He lives !—In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,
In dreams I see him now;
And, on his angel brow, I see it written, “ Thou shalt see me there !!”
Yes, we all live to God!
Father, thy chastening rod
That, in the spirit-land,
Meeting at thy right hand, "Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!
While yet she lived, she walked alone
Among these shades. A voice divine
Here shall thy wasting form recline,
“Thy will be done !" the sufferer said.
This spot was hallowed from that hour;
More lovely than her bridal bower.
By the pale moon—herself more pale
And spirit-like-these walks she trod ; And, while no voice, from swell or vale, Was heard, she knelt upon
this sod And gave her spirit back to God.
That spirit, with an angel's wings,
young mother's bed : So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings. She's lost to earth and earthly things;
But “weep not, for she is not dead,
She sleepeth!" Yea, she sleepeth here,
The first that in these grounds hath slept. This grave, first watered with the tear
That child or widowed man hath wept,
The babe that lay on her cold breast
A rosebud dropped on drifted snowIts young
hand in its father's pressed, Shall learn that she, who first caressed
Its infant check, now sleeps below.
And often shall he come alone,
When not a sound but evening's sigh
But God and guardian angels nigh,
say, • This was my mother's choice For her own grave: 0, be it mine! Even now, methinks, I hear her voice
Calling me hence, in the divine
How glad should I have been, Could I, in my lone wanderings,
Thine aged walls have seen ! Could I have gazed upon
the dome Above thy towers that swells, And heard, as evening's sun went down,
Thy parting camels' bells :
Could I have stood on Olivet,
Where once the Saviour trod, And, from its height, looked down upon
The city of our God ;
For is it not, Almighty God,
Thy holy city still, Though there thy prophets walk no more,
That crowns Moriah's hill ?
Thy prophets walk no more, indeed,
The streets of Salem now,
On Zion's saddened brow;
With pious sorrow kept,
That killed them, came and wept.
With joy upon it look,
That Kedron's feeble brook
Along their rocky bed,
Where Zion lifts her head.
Breaks over Olivet,
From every minaret;
Floats on the quiet air,
Before him come, for prayer !"
The city holds her breath,
Of Him of Nazareth;
Alike by age and youth,
Yea, from that day when Salem knelt
And bent her queenly neck
The sceptre and the sword
Have bowed before the Lord.
Jerusalem, I would have seen
Thy precipices steep,
Thy gorges dark and deep,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.
I would have mused, while night hung out
Her silver lamp so pale,
in Kedron's vale,
The city's wall sublime,
Defy the scythe of time.
The garden of Gethsemane
Those aged olive-trees
I would have sought the breeze,
And bore to heaven the prayer Of Jesus, when in agony,
He sought the Father there.
* This name is now generally written Ibrahim.
I would have gone to Calvary,
And, where the Marys stood,
As near him as they could,
Her heavy pall had thrown,
And learned to bear my own.
Thy cross thou bearest now!
And blood is on thy brow;
Thou didst reject as dross,
The crescent is thy cross !
It was not mine, nor will it be,
To see the bloody rod
Thou city of our God !
Of all thy murdered seers,
Are ringing in my ears, —
From all thy firmament,
Thy temple's vail was rent,
Thy feet, gave up their dead :-
His blood is on thy head !