Thy God is made a mock and scorn;
Weep for the misery that cometh on thee,
Yea, more dreadful will it be,
Than when the fierce Assyrian won thee,
And thy proud streets flow’d with a bloody sea!
Chorus.
Now, Sion, art thou cast away!
Thy name is sunk for ever!
Gone is thy pride and gone thy stay,
Yea, thou art cast away!
Thy vine shall blossom never;—
Thou art overthrown in other lands,
No friend shall weep over thee;—
Cruel and hostile hands
Wait to uncover thee!
Thy glory is darken’d, and turn’d into shame;
Oh where are thy ancient deeds, where is thy fame?
How shall the Gentile glory now,
That she the Empress lieth low;
Rejected of her Lord, and spoil’d her former name!
Messias.
Yea from the fix’d foundation-stone,
Yon Temple’s towers must fall!
The shrine where God had fix’d his throne—
The seat the Father call’d his own—
Shall vanish all!
And dark and long the night shall be,
Where desolation hovers o’er
Thy sons and thee!
Then shall be signs ne’er seen before,
Yea signs in heaven and signs on earth;
Then shall the dreadful word go forth!
Thou art my chosen race no more;
While the proud eagle wings his flight,
Amid the darkness of the night,
And claps his wings in joy to hear
The groan that tells him death is near;
Then shalt thou darkness dread—but more the coming light!
Semi-chorus.
Oh, who shall pray to God! Oh woe!
Who shall avert the destined blow?
What be the holy sacrifice?
When altars smoke and perfumes rise,
Go, Israel, go!
And weep and pray—Oh no! Oh no!
Thy end is near.
Thou shalt not tempt thy God again;
Now be thy portion wail, and fear,
Contempt and pain!
As thou received thy Lord—so be thy fate with men.
Chorus.
What glorious vision meets our eyes,
A new Jerusalem in the skies!
For earth and sea have passed away,
And hark! eternal spirits say—
“Now hath God fix’d his throne with men,
They shall his people be—
No weeping shall be heard again,
And death thou shalt not see,—
For all that were have passed away.”
No temple riseth there—
God is himself their holy shrine,
The Lamb their temple fair!
They have no sun, no day, no night,
But God is their eternal light!
And thousand saints in glory there,
Raise high their golden harps in air,
And echo back the strain,
“Worthy the Lamb who died to save,
Who broke the bondage of the grave;
Who died and lives again!
His be the conqueror’s meed, for Death himself was slain!”
THE STEAM-BOAT;
Or, The Voyages and Travels of Thomas Duffle, Cloth-merchant in the Saltmarket of Glasgow.
No. VIII.
When I had abundantly satisfied my curiosity with the curious things of London, I was admonished by my purse, which had suffered a sore bowel complaint from the time of my arrival, that it behoved me to think of taking it to grass and replenishment in the Salt-market. Accordingly after settling counts with Mrs Damask, I got a hackney to carry my portmanty to the wharf, where I embarked on board the Mountaineer steam-boat, bound, God willing, to the Port of Leith.
I had not been long on board when, lo! and behold who should I see, flourishing his cane, but that nice, good-tempered, fat man, whose genius and talents in the abstruse art of song writing make such a figure in Blackwood’s Magazine.
“Hey, Doctor!” quo I at length; “Hegh, sirs, but a sight of you here is gude for sair een—whar d’ye come frae?”
