LETTER XXXIX.

TO EDGAR GARSTON, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

Alexandria, Oct. 26, 1827.

THE traveller who approaches Jerusalem from Jaffa is amply repaid for the toil and peril of the route, by one of the most splendid prospects his eye has ever dwelt upon, He has passed through a scene of sterility, hardly to be equalled, from Ramah to Jerusalem, he has heard of nothing but the desolation of the Holy City, hẹ has read of little in its modern history but of its miserable aspect, and all at once a noble city rises on his view, with stately walls and lofty towers, and studded with glittering domes of mosques and monasteries. It is indeed a glorious sight, and the very Arab who accompanied me greeted the Holy City (for such the Arabs call it) with all the fervour of admiration; "Quies el

cods wallah, quies kitir!" he exclaimed, "How beautiful, oh God, is the Holy City! how very beautiful!"

Every pilgrim, let his enthusiasm be ever so different from that of those who profess to visit Jerusalem from the suggestions of piety, or perhaps of superstition, must own there is an atmosphere of melancholy magnificence around the structure of Jerusalem, and a death-like stillness in the streets, which he never before observed in the abodes of the living, and which give an air of sanctity to the site of the Temple, and a soul, as it were, to the religion of the place which enshrines the Sepulchre of Christ.

Few travellers, except such as visit Palestine to rail against monastic institutions, who see nothing but the horrors of papacy in the sanctuaries of Jerusalem, and who journey from Jordan to Siloa with a sort of religious monomania which paints nothing on their retina but the informous images of monks, and causes nothing to vibrate on their tympanum but the appalling sounds of the mass-bell; few travellers I say, except such as these, visit the spot which is connected with the history of their religion,

LINES WRITTEN IN JERUSALEM.

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without having their feelings powerfully excited; mine were so, and I gave them words in the form which my mind first presented, and unworthy of the subject as they are I send them to you.

LINES

WRITTEN IN JERUSALEM.

DAUGHTER of Zion! doomed from age to age

To prove the truth of the unerring page;
Thy sullied beauty, thy dejected mien,
Thy desolation still o'ercast the scene;
Thy mournful silence sinks into the heart,
Astounds the sense, and mocks description's art.
A weary pilgrim, here with steps profane
I tread thy paths, participate thy pain,
Recall the sad remembrance of thy fall,
And in the terrors of thy present thrall
Behold the judgments of a hand Supreme,
And trace the sources of redemption's scheme.

"Mournful, oh Zion! are thy ways" indeed,

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They come not to thy feasts," the chosen seed
O'er all the land of Israel hath ceased,

And foes and infidels alone increased.
The scattered remnant of thy race doth roam
O'er earth, without a country or a home;-
"A by-word," an astonishment to men;
Reviled, degraded, and in bonds again.

Where is the regal splendour of thy brow?
Where is the glory of the Temple" now?

Is the tall mosque to tell the sacred spot

Where stood the house of God? which now stands not.

Is the proud Moslem still to stride the throne

Of Royal David, and his glorious son?
Where is "the Hebrew of the Hebrews" gone?
Where have the treasures of the wise man flown?

Is "the fine gold of Ophir" to be found
In filthy mammon's traffic all around?
Is wisdom now to worldly craft confined?
Has paltry lucre paralyzed the mind?
Where now, alas! is the prophetic strain?
Or were the enraptured accents breathed in vain ?
Are Talmud legends to supplant the page
Of sacred songster and of holy sage?
And hath destruction ridden on the blast
Alone, to leave no vestige of the past?
O'erthrown the altar, but alone to yield
The Jeffalin to be the sinner's shield?
Is this the compensation for thy fall,
And not the blood the Saviour shed for all?

Father of mercy, graciously ordain
That great atonement be not made in vain;
Let Jew and Gentile bow with one accord,
Before the altar of their common Lord!

Direct the weak, the wicked overawe,
Enlighten all, and vindicate thy law;
Thy promised Kingdom spread from pole to pole,
And make thy chosen people of the whole.
Stay the unhallowed strife which rages here,
Betwixt conflicting creeds, and each draw near
To one true faith, as first for all sufficed,
And merge the name of sect in that of Christ!

Though rancour reigns, where Christian peace alone
Should sit triumphant on her sacred throne,
E'en though my spirit sickens at the scene,

And sense revolts at Superstition's mien ;
Far from my bosom be the pride refined,
Of that affected purity of mind,

Which fain would spurn devotion from the tomb
Of Him who died to mitigate our doom!

Far from me may that apathy still be,

Assumed or not, which scorns to bend the knee
Where the Redeemer hung upon the cross
For man's atonement, and for Eden's loss!

Still, while I take my solitary round,

Survey the wonders of this sacred ground,
Shrink at the gloom which overhangs the wall,
And mark the silence that prevails o'er all;
Tread on the heaps long trodden down of old,
By raging bigot, or invader bold;

Pause to refer each ruin to the work
Of time or war, of Titus or the Turk;
Still, thoughtless as I am, emotions rise,
Sceptic or stoick would in vain disguise.

And though the wreck of matter all around
Failed to excite a sense of awe profound,
The scenes connected with salvation rise
And soothe the prospect with celestial dyes.
Here is that Mount of Olives, ever fair,
That Garden of Gethsemane, still here;
Here is that Bethany where Mary grieved,
And Jesus wept, and Lazarus revived: