O turn to Him your Judge, from whose commands Deeply ye have revolted.'
Mercy hath staid the blow, put back the arm,
And said—' It is enough!' Man's dwellings stand
Like soldiers on a recent battle-field,
Stricken and wounded—each to other lends
His broken aid, till the next battle-shock
Strews their dead forms, like last of Autumn leaves, A scattered carpet on the Earth's cold breast, Reading this moral to the passer by:
There is in truth a God to judge the earth !
Were then the dwellers on this vine-clad hill
More deeply sunk in slumber, that God's hand
Thus shook them, till they leaned upon their crutch,
And staggered, as a drunkard, to his fall?
Did their sins rise a dark and denser cloud
Than those of others? O forbear to judge!
Where all alike, God chooses, as He may,
Who bear His warnings to their fellow-men!
Beware, lest as the doomed by Siloam's tower,
Ye also perish! Heaped the pit of wrath,
And hot the flame, and broad, tho' yet unseen,
The workings of his ministers of wrath,
Tarrying a moment, till his cup be full,
And His arm bared. Ye see His heavy hand
Laid on each shattered rock and fallen dome,
Crushed arch, and broken column. Who shall say
He will not march in anger thro' the land,
And plant you on the borders of the pit
Whence never ye return? Then sweet to read
A Father's love, e'en where his vengeance-fire
Burns hottest-sweet to watch the raging storm,
And crashing devastations of his wrath,
And crowd beneath His wing-in good or ill,
To claim the seal and heritage of Heav'n!
Is this thy lot, Foligno! planted thus
O'er founts of flame, that gild earth's secret caves,
Flashing in restless energy to find a vent,
And work their mission-say, is this thy lot,
To know Jehovah thine, and feel his love?
Then fear them not-these messengers of ill!
But if no pledge be thine of pardoned sin,
Well may'st thou fear-not earth's rude shock,
Or molten tempest of volcanic fire,
But him, who wakes to being with a touch
Each mighty engine, and directs its power
As his will guides-to scourge or to destroy.
O turn to Him, who hath the might to crush,
Who hath the will to
spare-turn, and souls shall live
your
Turn, and these shattered domes shall speak His praise,
Who wounds to heal-who smites, that he may save!
EVERY BATTLE OF THE WARRIOR IS WITH CONFUSED NOISE, AND GARMENTS ROLLED IN BLOOD.-ISA. IX. 5.
HARK to the din of death! as loud
From mount to mount its echoes beat,
While, 'neath yon canopy of cloud,
The hosts of warring nations meet!
No hired bands their fortune cast;
The soul is in yon trumpet-blast,
It speeds yon arrowy sleet;
And what but blood that fight can stay,
Where living hate alone hath sway!
The light of heav'n beams from afar,
Lifts high the veil that shuts the scene;
Bursts on the eye the pomp of war,
Along thy banks, fair Thrasimene !
Tho' louring night hath sought her lair,
The night of passion still is there,
The darker far, I weene;
While foot to foot, and hand to hand,
Rome wrestles o'er the shrinking strand.
The love of home, the dread of shame,
The swellings of indignant pride,
The glory of the Roman name,
Which cannot deem itself belied;
These fix to earth the soldier's foot,
That clings, like some oak's deep'ning root,
When tempests o'er it ride,
Till owns the scathed and riven form
The blasting of this Southern storm.
Thus Roman wrestles with his foe,
And steps into his sword-dug grave;
While, with alternate ebb and flow,
The mass rocks, like a thwarted wave;
From far, the flashing sabre's light
Glances like phosphor-gleams by night,
Where fights and falls the brave;
And echoing dell and mountain round
With shout of harsh rebuke resound!
O'erborne by a remorseless foe,
Rome stoops her broken crest of pride, And in this hour of deepest woe,
Swift speeds along the mountain-side;
Hate riots in the deep defile,
While cruel Death, with ghastly smile,
Sits grim the hosts beside;
And o'er the lake a blood-red stream
Glistens beneath the rising beam!
Hushed are all sounds of battle now,
And hushed the widow's wail;
Peace crowns with flowers the mountain's brow, And Pleasure spreads her sail.
From day to day thou rear'st thy breast,
In nature's balmy blessings blest;
And hill and lowly dale,
With garland of the richest green,
Shine in thy face, fair Thrasimene !
It is the Sabbath-eve! alone
I wander by thy shore,
Where every shrub and moss-clad stone,
Breathe of historic lore:
|