THINGS TO COME.

There are murmurs on the deep,
There are thunders on the heaven;
Though the ocean billows sleep,

Though no cloud the sign has given;
Earth that sudden storm shall feel,
"Tis a storm of man and steel.

Tribes are in their forests now,
Idly hunting ounce and deer;
Tribes are crouching in their snow
O'er their wild and wintry cheer,
Doom'd to swell that tempest's roar,
Where the torrent-rain is gore.

War of old has swept the world,
Guilt has shaken strength and pride;
But the thunders, feebly hurl'd,
Quiver'd o'er the spot, and died;
When the vengeance next shall fall,
Woe to each and woe to all.

Man hath shed Man's blood for toys,
Love and hatred, fame and gold;
Now, a mightier wrath destroys;

Earth in cureless crime grows old;

Past destruction shall be tame

To the rushing of that flame.

When the clouds of Vengeance break,
Folly shall be on the wise,
Frenzy shall be on the weak,
Nation against nation rise,
And the worse than Pagan sword
In Religion's breast be gored.

Then the Martyr's solemn cry,

That a thousand years has rung,

Where their robes of crimson lie

Round the Golden Altar' flung, Shall be heard,—and from the 'throne' The trumpet of the Judgment' blown.

"Woe to Earth, the mighty, woe!" Yet shall Earth her conscience lull, Till above the brim shall flow

The draught of gall.-The cup is full.

Yet a moment!-Comes the ire,--
Famine, bloodshed, flood, and fire.

First shall fall a Mighty one!

Ancient crime had crown'd his brow,
Dark Ambition raised his throne-
Truth his victim and his foe.
Earth shall joy in all her fear
O'er the great Idolater.

Then shall rush abroad the blaze

Sweeping Heathen zone by zone;
Afric's tribe the spear shall raise,
Shivering India's pagod throne;
China hear her Idol's knell
In the Russian's cannon-peal.

On the Turk shall fall the blow
From the Grecian's dagger'd hand!
Blood like winter-showers shall flow,
Till he treads the Syrian land!
Then shall final vengeance shine,
And all be seal'd in Palestine!

THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM.

The air is fill'd with shouts, and trumpets' sounding;

A host are at thy gates, Jerusalem.

Now is their van the Mount of Olives rounding;

Above them Judah's lion-banners gleam,

Twined with the palm and olives' emerald stem. Now swell the nearer sounds of voice and string, As down the hill-side pours the living stream; And to the cloudless heaven Hosannas ring"The Son of David comes !-the Conqueror-the King!" The cuirass'd Roman heard; and grasp'd his shield, And rush'd in fiery haste to gate and tower;

The Pontiff from his battlement beheld The host, and knew the falling of his power: He saw the cloud on Sion's glory lour. Still down the marble road the myriads come, Spreading the way with garment, branch, and flower, And deeper sounds are mingling, "Woe to Rome! "The day of freedom dawns; rise, Israel, from thy tomb!"

Temple of beauty-long that day is done;
Thy ark is dust; thy golden cherubim
In the fierce triumphs of the foe are gone:
The shades of ages on thy altars swim.

Yet still a light is there, though wavering dim;
And has its holy lamp been watch'd in vain?
Or lives it not until the finish'd time,

When he who fix'd, shall break his people's chain, And Sion be the loved, the crown'd of God again?

But then thou wast of Earth the splendid wonder,
And matchless beauty sat upon thy walls.
At once, as with a peal of midnight thunder,
Was shook the crowd within thy ivory halls;
The priests, with turban'd brows and purple palls,
The son of Mammon, the pale usurer,

Like men that see the lightning ere it falls,

From their polluted seats sprang, smote with fear; That shout, like judgment, burst upon the guilty ear.

He comes, yet with the burning bolt unarm'd;
Pale, pure, prophetic, God of Majesty!

Tho' thousands, tens of thousands, round him swarm'd,
None durst abide that depth divine of eye;
None durst the waving of his robe draw nigh.
But at his feet was laid the Roman's sword:
There Lazarus knelt to see his King pass by;

There Jairus, with his age's child, adored.

"He comes, the King of Kings: Hosanna to the Lord!"

That rock's his haunt.-There's not in all our hills
A hunter that can climb with him. He'll watch
Before the lark is up; and, staff in hand,
For hours stand gazing, by the eagle's nest,

Like one enamour'd of the rising sun;

And then all day he 'll wander through yon woods,
Till he has found his couch beside a rill:

Which, in his fantasy, he strews with shells,
And hangs with garlands of the weedy flowers.

Some think him love-cross'd;-others, that he deals
With spirits, for all such seek loneliness:

And yet I think him holy, for he loves
Our convent walls, and many an evening strays
To see the sunset sleeping on its roof
And its old arches, or but turns away

To pore upon its image in the stream;

And then upon his knee he'll spread his book,
And make wild lines, and smile, and tear the page,
Flinging it down the stream. Here's one of them.
[Giving a paper.

STRANGER.

This is LORRAINE! or he is not on earth.

SONG.

Thou loveliest of the lovely, where
Is thy bright spirit gone?
Where is thy gentle throne;

In what sweet and silver sphere?

Tell me, my Angela, that I

All night on thee may gaze,
And know thy temple's blaze
From all the splendours of the sky.

Oh! if the loved in death return,
To love and look upon

The pale, heart-broken one,

That weeps at midnight o'er their urn;

Tell me, when on the blissful air

They stoop, that I may be

Found fit to welcome thee,

With hands and heart upraised in prayer.

Or art thou changed, and to mine eye

A thing invisible;

Wrapp'd in the unpierced veil

Of holy immortality?

No,-thou wilt stoop to earth no more;

Thy glory were profaned

By thoughts to earth still chain'd:

My Angela, thy trial's o'er.

And I will follow thee, sweet love!
Life's bitterness is past,

The world is fading fast,
My spirit wings its way above.

TO LOVE.

Young tyrant of the bow and wings,
Thy altar asks three precious things;
The heart's, the world's, most precious three,
Courage, and Time, and Constancy!
And Love must have them all, or none:
By Time he's wearied, but not won;
He shrinks from Courage hot and high;
He laughs at tedious Constancy;

But all his raptures, tender, true, sublime,
Are given to Courage, Constancy, and Time.

THE NUN.

In the low echoes of the anthem's close
The murmurs of a distant chorus rose.
A portal open'd; in its shadow stood
A sable pomp, the hallow'd sisterhood.
They led a white-robed form, young, delicate,
Where life's delicious spring was opening yet:
Yet was she stately, and, as up the aisle

She moved, her proud, pale lip half wore a smile:
Her eye was firm, yet those who saw it near,
Saw on its lash the glistening of a tear.
All to Sidonia's passing daughter bow'd,

And she return'd it gravely, like one vow'd

To loftier things. But, once she paused; and press'd
With quick, strange force her slight hand to her breast,
And her wan cheek was redden'd with a glow
That spread its crimson to her forehead's snow,
As if the vestal felt the throes that wreak
Their stings upon young hearts about to break;
She struggled, sigh'd; her look of agony
Was calm'd, and she was at Sidonia's knee.