ONE WARNING MORE.

WRITTEN FOR DISTRIBUTION ON A RACE COURSE, 1824.

One fervent, faithful warning more

To him who heeded none before.

THE fly around the candle wheels,
Enjoys the sport, and gaily sings,
Till nearer, nearer borne, he feels

The flame like lightning singe his wings;
Then weltering in the gulf below he lies,
And limb by limb, scorch'd miserably, dies.
From bough to bough the wild bird hops,
Where late he caroll'd blithe and free,
But downward, downward, now he drops,
Faint, fluttering, helpless from the tree,
Where, stretch'd below, with eye of deadly ray,
The eager rattle-snake expects his prey.

Thou, child of pleasure, art the fly,
Drawn by the taper's dazzling glare;
Thou art the bird that meets an eye,

Alluring to the serpent's snare;

Oh! stay:—is reason lost?—is conscience dumb? Be wise, be warn'd, escape the wrath to come.

Not swifter o'er the level course,

The racer glances to the goal,

Than thou, with blind and headlong force

Art running on-to lose thy soul;

Then, though the world were won, how dear the cost!
Can the whole world avail a spirit lost?

Death, on his pale horse, following fast,
Gains on thy speed, with hell behind;
Fool! all thy yesterdays are past,

To-morrow thou wilt never find;

To-day is hastening to eternity;

"This night thy soul shall be required of thee."

VOL. II.

A RIDDLE.

ADDRESSED TO E. R., 1820.

I KNOW not who these lines may see;
I know not what these lines will be;
But, since a word in season sent,
As from a bow at hazard bent,
May reach a roving eye, or dart
Conviction to a careless heart,
Oh! that an arrow I could find
In the small quiver of my mind,
Which, with unerring aim, should strike
Each, who encounters it, alike!

Reader! attention!-I will spring
A wondrous thought; 'tis on the wing;
Guard well your heart, you guard in vain,
The wound is made, yet gives no pain;
Surprise may make your cheek to glow,
But, courage! none but you can know ;
The thought, awaken'd by my spell,
Is more than I myself can tell.

How?-search the chamber of your breast,
And think of that which you love best!
I've raised the spirit, but cannot lay it,
Your secret found, but can't betray it.
So, ask yourself,-" What will this be,
A thousand ages hence, to me?"
And if it will not stand the fire,'
In which all nature shall expire,
Think,―ere these rhymes aside are cast,—
As though the thought might be your last,
"Where shall I find below, above,
An object worthy of my love?"

Now hearken, and forget it never,—
Love that which you may love for ever.

36

THE TOMBS OF THE FATHERS.

The Jews occasionally hold a "Solemn Assembly" in the valley of Jehoshaphat, the ancient burial-place of Jerusalem. They are obliged to pay a heavy tax for the privilege of thus mourning, in stillness, at the sepulchres of their ancestors.

PART I.

IN Babylon they sat and wept,

Down by the river's willowy side;

And when the breeze their harp-strings swept,
The strings of breaking hearts replied:

-A deeper sorrow now they hide;

No Cyrus comes to set them free

From ages of captivity.

All lands are Babylons to them,
Exiles and fugitives they roam;
What is their own Jerusalem ?

-The place where they are least at home!

Yet hither from all climes they come;

And pay their gold, for leave to shed
Tears o'er the generations fled.

Around, the eternal mountains stand,
With Hinnom's darkling vale between ;
Old Jordan wanders through the land,
Blue Carmel's sea-ward crest is seen,
And Lebanon yet sternly green
Throws, when the evening sun declines,
Its cedar-shades, in lengthening lines.

But, ah! for ever vanish'd hence,

The temple of the living GOD,
Once Zion's glory and defence!

-Now mourn beneath the oppressor's rod,
The fields which faithful Abraham trod,
Where Isaac walk'd by twilight gleam,
And heaven came down on Jacob's dream.

For ever mingled with the soil,

Those armies of the Lord of Hosts, That conquer'd Canaan, shared the spoil, Quell'd Moab's pride, storm'd Midian's posts, Spread paleness through Philistia's coasts, And taught the foes, whose idols fell, "There is a God in Israel."

Now, David's tabernacle gone,

What mighty builder shall restore? The golden throne of Solomon,

And ivory palace are no more;

The Psalmist's song, the Preacher's lore, Of all they wrought, alone remain Unperish'd trophies of their reign.

Holy and beautiful of old,

Was Zion 'midst her princely bowers; Besiegers trembled to behold

Bulwarks that set at naught their powers;

-Swept from the earth are all her towers; Nor is there-so was she bereft

One stone upon another left.

The very site whereon she stood,

In vain the eye, the foot would trace;
Vengeance, for saints' and martyrs' blood,
Her walls did utterly deface;

Dungeons and dens usurp their place;
The cross and crescent shine afar,
But where is Jacob's natal star?

PART II.

Still inexterminable, still

Devoted to their mother-land, Her offspring haunt the temple-hill,

Amidst her desecration stand,

And bite the lip, and clench the hand;

-To-day in that lone vale they weep,
Where patriarchs, kings, and prophets sleep.
Ha! what a spectacle of wo!

In groups they settle on the ground;
Men, women, children gathering slow,
Sink down in reverie profound;

There is no voice, no speech, no sound,
But through the shuddering frame is thrown
The heart's unutterable groan.

Entranced they sit, nor seem to breathe,
Themselves like spectres from the dead;
Where shrined in rocks above, beneath,
With clods along the valley spread,
Their ancestors, each on his bed,
Repose, till at the judgment-day,
Death and the grave give up their

Before their eyes, as in a glass,

prey.

-Their eyes that gaze on vacancy-
Pageants of ancient grandeur pass,
But, “Ichabod” on all they see
Brands Israel's foul apostasy;

Then last and worst, and crowning all
Their crimes and sufferings-Salem's fall.

Nor breeze, nor bird, nor palm-tree stirs,
Kedron's unwater'd brook is dumb;
But through the glen of sepulchres
Is heard the city's fervid hum,
Voices of dogs and children come :
Till loud and long the medzin's* cry,

From Omar's mosque, peals round the sky.

Blight through their veins those accents send;
In agony of mute despair,

* More properly "muedhin's," the person whose business it is to call the Mohammedans to prayer; no bells being used by them for that purpose.