MIRIAM.

———

BY KATE DASHWOOD.

———

Oh Harp of Judah! long thy thrilling strain

Hath slumbered ’mid the gloom of centuries⁠—

Save when some master-spirit woke again

Thy silent chords of thousand symphonies.

Not thine, his swelling anthems loudly ringing⁠—

Oh Maid of Judah! with thy prophet-song,

And sounding timbrel’s voice, all proudly flinging

Thy warrior-notes Judea’s hills among!

Oh voiceless harp! fain would my soul-wrapt ear

Catch some faint echo from thy silent strings.

And, as these trembling fingers half in fear

Sweep o’er thy slumbering chords—lo! there up-springs

Strange spirit-music, tremulous and low

As half-breathed sigh—to fitful silence hushing

Those thrilling strains my unskilled fingers know

Not to control. But hush! again their gushing

Swells like loud battle-peal on fierce blasts rushing.

Night! o’er thy mountains, oh Gilboa! where

The mighty spear of Saul was rent in twain.

And haughty Israel’s curse was branded there⁠—

The blood of her first king—dark as the curse of Cain!

Night—on Mount Moriah! o’er his solemn brow

Those sentinels that guard the halls of Heaven

As brightly keep their wakeful vigils now

As when He knelt ’neath their pure beams at even,

And prayed in agony that we might be forgiven.

Moonlight o’er Galilee! the sparkling wave

That bounded as the sunbeams kissed its breast,

Are now all motionless and silent, save

Their low, hushed murmurs where the soft winds rest.

Night o’er lone Samaria! thy dark hill’s crest

Fades proudly into gloom. Still linger there

Thy maidens at “The Well” His feet have prest;

Still floats their broken music on the air

At eve, blent with the wave’s low murmured prayer.

Thy moon rides slowly o’er thy hills, oh Galilee!

Proud Queen of Heaven! bound to her far-off throne

Behind the Syrian mountains—and thy sea,

Oh lone Tiberias! where of late she shone,

Mirrors the stars upon thy bosom—stars of voiceless Night.

The dark Chaldean, from his cloud-hung tower,

Keeps his lone vigils by thy waning light,

For Israel keepeth Feast of solemn power,^[1]

When thy bright beams shall fade at morning hour.

The stern Chaldean turns him from his lore

Where he hath writ the mighty destiny

Those stars revealed. Now seeks he thy dim shore,

Tiberias! the spirit-minstrelsy

Of unborn Ages breathes upon his lyre

In soul-wrapt flame. But hush! the far-off notes

Of timbrel-echoes ’mong the hills expire,

As ’twere some seraph’s song o’er earth that floats

And fades away in air—when lo! proud Miriam stands

Before him and his prophecy commands.

THE CHALDEAN’S PROPHECY.

“Daughter of Judah! on thy brow

Thy kingly line is proudly blent

With Israel’s faith, and woman’s vow⁠—

Now love, now pride—each lineament.

Thine is the faith thy fathers bore⁠—

A heritage despised, contemned⁠—

The fearful curse still lingers o’er

Israel’s outcast tribes condemned.

Thine is their faith—but dost thou deem

Thy soul is with the Nazarene?”

“False Prophet! had Ben Ezra’s ear

But heard thy lying prophecy,

Thou stand’st not, Heaven-daring here,

To mock our Faith thus impiously!

For Israel’s Lord is still our God!

And Israel’s outcast tribes shall turn

Back to these hills our fathers trod,

And fallen Judah cease to mourn.

False Seer! thy words I heed them not⁠—

Those stars are dim thine eyes have sought.”

. . . . . .

Darkness o’er the Eternal City!—gloom

O’er her thousand palaces! and Night,

Deep, solemn Night! broods ever o’er the tomb

Of her vast temples, fallen in their might.

Still to their broken shrines worn pilgrims come⁠—

And ’neath their mighty columns, sunken low,

The fierce Bedouin seeks his midnight home,

And treacherous lurks where footsteps chance to go.

Proud Rome! thy thousand hills are silent now⁠—

Where waved the “Imperial Eagle” o’er their brow.^[2]

Yet o’er her mighty temples’ fallen shrines

Still sleeps the sunshine ’mid the shadows there;

There many a wearied pilgrim-wanderer finds

A peaceful rest from Life’s dark toil and care.

And there awaiteth many a scattered one

Of Israel’s people—till the joyful day

Shall see the long “lost tribe of Judah” come

Once more to thy blest land, oh Palestine! for aye,

And here, ’mid fallen Rome, Ben Ezra bides⁠—

Miriam is not—earth hath no joy besides.

. . . . . .

America the blest! all proudly to thy shore

Fled Rome’s imperial eagle! thy fair land

Sleeps e’er ’mid bloom and sunshine; evermore

Thy Freedom’s holy cause shall firmly stand.

Our noble sires! their true hearts’ incense rose

Here upon God’s free altars; let us keep

Their memories holy! Room at our shrines for those

Who seek, like them, a rest from bondage deep.

And Miriam! was that prophecy a dream?

Thy soul—thy faith is with the Nazarene.