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He lives !—In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair ;

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
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That, in the spirit-land,

Meeting at thy right hand, "Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

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While yet she lived, she walked alone

Among these shades. A voice divine
Whispered, “ This spot shall be thine own;

Here shall thy wasting form recline,
Beneath the shadow of this pine.”

“Thy will be done !" the sufferer said.

This spot was hallowed from that hour;
And, in her eyes, the evening's shade
And morning's dew this green spot made

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,

from the

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,
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept.

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
Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name, with none

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
And mournful whisper of this pine."


JERUSALEM, Jerusalem,

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,
Nor are their voices lifted up

On Zion's saddened brow;
Nor are their garnished sepulchres

With pious sorrow kept,
Where once the same Jerusalem,

That killed them, came and wept.
But still the seed of Abraham

With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,

That Kedron's feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep

Along their rocky bed,
And Israel's God is worshipped yet

Where Zion lifts her head.
Yes; every morning, as the day

Breaks over Olivet,
The holy name of Allah comes

From every minaret;
At every eve the mellow call

Floats on the quiet air,
"Lo, God is God! Before him come,

Before him come, for prayer !"
I know, when at that solemn call

The city holds her breath,
That Omar's mosque hears not the name

Of Him of Nazareth;
But Abraham's God is worshipped there

Alike by age and youth,
And worshipped,—hopeth charity, —
“In spirit and in truth.”

Yea, from that day when Salem knelt

And bent her queenly neck
To him who was, at once, her priest

And king,Melchisedek,
To this, when Egypt's Abraham'

The sceptre and the sword
Shakes o'er her head, her holy men

Have bowed before the Lord.

Jerusalem, I would have seen

Thy precipices steep,
The trees of palm that overhang

Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,

And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,

Thy shepherds and their flocks.

I would have mused, while night hung out

Her silver lamp so pale,
Beneath those ancient olive-trees

in Kedron's vale,
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides

The city's wall sublime,
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks

Defy the scythe of time.

The garden of Gethsemane

Those aged olive-trees
Are shading yet, and in their shade

I would have sought the breeze,
That, like an angel, bathed the brow,

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,
Bewailing loud the Crucified,

As near him as they could,
I would have stood, till night o'er earth

Her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour's cross,

And learned to bear my own.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,

And blood is on thy brow;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,

Thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid-

The crescent is thy cross !

It was not mine, nor will it be,

To see the bloody rod
That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,

Thou city of our God !
But round thy bill the spirits throng

Of all thy murdered seers,
And voices that went up from it

Are ringing in my ears, —
Went up that day, when darkness fell

From all thy firmament,
And shrouded thee at noon; and when

Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touched

Thy feet, gave up their dead :-
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,

His blood is on thy head !

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