Yes! Yes!—'t is the site of the dreamless bed,
There 's a voice from those sepulchres cold,—
The mighty are there,—but their pomp is dead,
And the lover who pale from the bridal fled,
In his bosom the worm to fold.
Can ye tell us nought of the souls who fly
From their prison of earthly gloom?—
Hark! Hark! to the hollow and hoarse reply,
"Ora pro anima mea," they cry
From the depth of each sculptured tomb.
But why do ye cry unto us, ye dead?—
We are striving with sorrow's blast,
We are weak, and mid snares of sin we tread,
We are frail, and the change of death we dread,
That change with you is past.
Till the fearful audit of mortal crime,
When the books of the judgment ope,
Till the flash of that flame whose wrath sublime
Shall feed on the spoils of buried time,
Rest,—rest in your beds of hope.
A HEBREW TALE.
Twilight was deepening with a tinge of eve,
As toward his home in Israel's shelter'd vales
A stately Rabbi drew. His camels spied
Afar the palm-trees' lofty heads that deck'd
The dear, domestic fountain,—and in speed
Prest with broad foot, the smooth and dewy glade.
