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And Bashan, and Carmel, and Lebanon fade,
And the earth is consumed, and the hills are dismay'd,

The depths of the mountains are stirr'd.
Say, who can stand in His anger's path

When his fury descends like fire?
Say, who can abide the heat of His wrath,

For the rocks are rent by His ire ?

The Lord is good, and a hiding-place

For those who in trouble seek His face;

Behold, on the mountains are those who tell

Of peace

and salvation to Israel.

Proud Nineveh ! are thy watchers dumb ?
The hosts that shall dash thee in pieces are come.
Ho! man the ramparts, watch the way,
And set thy battle’s fierce array:
The shields of thy mighty men are red,
And thy valiant men are in scarlet clad;
Like flaming torches thy chariots seer,
And run like the lightning's vivid gleam,
And the cry resounds through those dense alarms,
Stand, Asshur, stand- To arms! To arms !

Huzzab is fallen: void and vast,
All at her death-pangs stand aghast;
And the loins are loosed with pain at her doom,
And the faces of all men gather gloom.
Where is the lions' rifled lair?
The dens of prey and of ravine, where?
Woe to the bloody city, woe!
The Lord hath smitten her, and lo!
Drunken she staggers to and fro.
Who lately sate a princess seeming,
With witcheries and whoredoms teeming ;-
And far her proud defiance hurld,
The harlot empress of the world ;
How is she dragg'd in chains along !
Why beats she her breast at the victor's song?
How lies she friendless, shelterless,
In guilt, and shame, and nakedness!
The gazing-stock of those who were
Once slaves and sycophants of her!
The sharp fire burns like the cankerworm,
And the sword has defiled thy alluring form;
But never hath a balm been found
To heal thy everlasting wound.

Earth waves exultingly its hand
O'er thee, the scourge of every land.


These harpings ceased, and when I look'd again,

Fire, sword, and famine their fell work had done. The city lay in ruin on the plain :

Her shrines, her palaces, her monarch's throne,

One mingled mass of crumbling earth and stone. Time digg’d thy grave, and heap'd the dust on thee;

Soon died the echo of thy dying groan ; And travellers, who came thy wreck to see, Ask’d, and received no answer Where is Nineveh?


It is the evening of the world. The sun

Casts level shadows o’er its restless tide; And though dense clouds, before his race be run,

Betoken coming tempest, in their pride

The nations still all signs of night deride,
And to and fro are hurrying through the earth

By ancient tracks or pathways yet untried
To satisfy their souls' insatiate dearth
With riches or with fame, or pleasure's idiot-mirth.


Men throng all paths of knowledge, urging still

Into the vast unknown their perilous way; Wielding all powers of nature to their will,

To-day they spurn the speed of yesterday,

And travel with the storms, nor brook delay. And swifter than the eagle's swiftest wing

They bind their words upon the lightning's ray, And from the elements new virtues wring, To sound the lowest depths of truth's exhaustless spring.


Men throng all paths of knowledge. Science dives

Below the ocean's bed, the mountain's base,

And from the bowels of creation rives

Those monumental stones which dimly trace

Earth’s primal story: then she soars apace Above our little orb, and speeds afar

'Mid distant planets her unwearied chase, Skirting their track as in a seraph's car From luminous world to world, from gorgeous star to star.


Men throng all paths of knowledge. It might seem

Earth was now launch'd upon the early source Of time's illimitably-flowing stream ;

But trace the windings of her backward course,

Her centuries of crime and dark remorse,
And learn these struggles ne'er can be renew'd;

The feverish efforts of exhausted force, -
The latest ebb of strength almost subdued, -
The sure and fearful signs of near decrepitude.


See how upon those ancient haunts she dwells,

Where first her prowess and her power began ; And lingers there instinctively, and tells

Her antique story like an aged man,

Telling what races in his youth he ran, And all the trophies of his early prime;

Too conscious that his brief remaining span Waits only for the solemn passing chime, To warn us he hath done with all the things of time.

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