And searched the dead and broke the coffin-lid,
Lured by the wealth which Jew or Christian hid.
They in their turn departed; long, long years
Have done their worst-Geraza still appears,
Queen-like and sad, on ruin gazing down,
No foe but Time, no subjects and no crown,
Her only guest Oblivion's shade, who keeps
Watch o'er the scene, while Rome's pale genius weeps.

Behold this arch of triumph!-reared to whom?
No line declares-'tis lonely as a tomb;
Yet here the monarch passed, or man of war,

While shouts rang round, and laurels decked his car;
We walk beneath-Geraza rises near,

Not harsh the scene, not gloomy or severe,
But grandly beautiful, and softly mild-
Another Tadmor mourns upon the wild.
The broken statue, column worn and rent,

The tottering tower, the grass-grown monument.

SCENE IN GETHSEMANE.

The moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow,

Set with the morning star, was not yet dim;
And the deep silence which subdues the breath
Like a strong feeling hung upon the world
As sleep upon the pulses of a child.

'Twas the last watch of the night. Gethsemane,

With its bathed leaves of silver, seemed dissolved
In visible stillness; and as Jesus' voice,
With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear
Of His disciples, it vibrated on

Like the first whisper in a silent world.
They came on slowly. Heaviness oppressed
The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses
Of His deep love were poured, He felt the need
Of near communion, for His gift of strength
Was wasted by the spirit's weariness.
He left them there, and went a little on,
And in the depth of that hushed silentness,
Alone with God, He fell upon His face,
And as His heart was broken with the rush
Of His surpassing agony, and death,
Wrung to Him from a dying universe,
Was mightier than the Son of Man could bear,
He gave His sorrows way, and in the deep

Prostration of His soul, breathed out the prayer,
"Father, if it be possible with Thee,
Let this cup pass from me."

JERICHO.

Where are thy walls, proud Jericho?-the blast
Of Israel's horn to earth thy towers might cast,
But time more surely lays thy bulwarks low;
Yonder the Jordan sweeps the tireless flow,
And Pisgah rears his earth-o'ergazing brow,
Defying storm and thunder-where art thou?
Thy towers have left no stone; not e'en a palm
Wave on thy site amidst the burning calm.
A few green turf-clad mounds alone remain,
Like those which rise on Troy's deserted plain.
Gone is that costly plant, a queen's hand
To Salem brought from Sheba's spicy land,
The weeping balsam, whose nectareous dew,
More prized than silver, well the trader knew;
Yet still one flower above its flinty bed,
Renowned by minstrels, lifts its lowly head;
White rose of Jericho! so small, yet sweet,
That oft the way-worn traveller stoops to greet,
What dost thou in this desert? Vain thy bloom
As the lamp's light that gilds the cheerless tomb;

Vain opes thy bosom to the thankless air,
No painted insect flies to nestle there;
Thy scents embalm the ground, but useless shed
As gifts of good upon the ungrateful head.
Alas, fair rose, the barren plain we see,
How can it warm to life, have charms for thee?

JERUSALEM.

Four lamps were burning o'er two mighty graves,
Godfrey's and Baldwin's, Salem's Christian kings;
And holy light glanced from Helena's naves,

Fed with the incense which the pilgrim brings,
While through the panelled roof the cedar flings

Its sainted arms o'er the choir and roof and dome, And every porphyry-pillared cloister rings

To every kneeler there its "welcome home,"
As every lip breathes out, "O Lord, Thy kingdom come."

A mosque was garnished with the crescent moons,
And a clear voice called Mussulmans to prayer.
There were the splendors of Judea's thrones,

There were the trophies which its conquerors wear,
And all but the truth, the holy truth was there;
For there with the lip profane, the crier stood,
And him from the tall minaret you might hear,
Singing to all whose steps had thither trod,
That verse misunderstood, "There is no God but God."

Hark! did the pilgrim tremble as he kneeled?
And did the turbaned Turk his sins confess?
Those mighty hands the elements that wield,
That mighty Power that knows to curse or bless
Is over all; and in whatever dress

His suppliants crowd around Him, He can see.

ODE TO JERUSALEM.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem!

If any love thee not, on them

May all thy judgments fall;

For every hope that crowns our earth,
All birth-gifts of her heavenly birth,
To thee she owes them all!

Deep was thy guilt, and deep thy woe;
The brand of Cain upon thy brow,

Each shore has held thy tread:
No altar now is thine; no priest;
Upon the hearth no paschal feast:
The paschal moon is dead.

When from their height the nations fall,
The kind grave o'er them strews her pall;
They die as mortals die.

But He who looked thee in the face
Stamped here that look no years erase,
His own on Calvary.

Awe-struck on thee men gaze, and yet
Confess thy greatness, own our debt,
And trembling still revere

The royal family of man

Supporting thus its blight and ban
With constancy austere.

CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM.

He sat upon the ass's foal and rode
Toward Jerusalem. Beside Him walked,
Closely and silently, the faithful twelve,
And on before Him went a multitude
Shouting hosannas, and with eager hands
Strewing their garments thickly in his way.
The unbroken foal beneath Him gently stepped,
Tame as its patient dam; and as the song
Of "Welcome to the son of David" burst
Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves
Of the waved branches touched its silken ears,
It turned its wild eye for a moment back,
And then, subdued by an invisible hand,
Meekly strode onward with its slender feet.

The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone
As He rode up Mount Olivet. The woods
Threw their cool shadows freshly to the west,
And the light foal, with quick and toiling step,
And head bent low, kept its unslackened way
Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind
Sent o'er the mount from Jordan. As He reached
The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised
His calm blue eye-there stood Jerusalem!