But ye are come unto Mount Sion, and unto the city of the living God, the heavenly _Jerusalem_, and to an innumerable company of angels.--Hebrews, xii. 22. _Jerusalem_, that place divine, The vision of sweet peace is named, In heaven her glorious turrets shine, Her walls of living stones are framed; While angels guard her on each side, Fit company for such a bride. She, decked in new attire, from heaven, Her wedding-chamber, now descends, Prepared in marriage to be given To Christ, on whom her joy depends. Her walls wherewith she is enclosed, And streets are of pure gold composed. The gates adorn’d with pearls most bright, The way to hidden glory show, And thither by the blessed might Of faith in Jesus’ merits go All those who are on earth distress’d, Because they have Christ’s name profess’d. These stones the workmen dress and beat, Before they throughly polish’d are, Then each in his own proper seat, Established by the builder’s care, In this fair frame to stand for ever, So join’d, that them no power can sever. _Drummond._ The signs are full, and never shall the sun Shine on the cedar roofs of Salem more: Her tale of splendour now is done; Her wine-cup of festivity is spilt, And all is o’er--her grandeur and her guilt. Oh, fair and favoured city, where of old, The balmy airs were rich with melody, That led her pomp beneath the cloudless sky In vestments flaming with the orient gold; Her gold is dim, and mute her music’s voice, The heathen o’er her perish’d pomp rejoice! How stately then was every palm-deck’d street Down which the maidens danced with tinkling feet! How proud the elders in the lofty gate! How crowded all her nation’s solemn feasts With white-robed Levites, and high-mitred priests; How gorgeous her temple’s sacred state! Her streets are razed, her maidens sold for slaves, Her gates thrown down, her elders in their graves; Her feasts are holden ’mid the Gentile’s scorn, By stealth her priesthood’s holy garments worn. _Milman._ _Jerusalem!_ alas! alas! of old, Deaf to whate’er prophetic seers foretold, Assailing all, whom Heaven, in mercy sent And murdering those that warned thee to repent! Thou, the world’s Saviour who suspendedst high, His works reviled, and mocked His agony, How oft hath God, still gracious, striven to bring Thy devious brood beneath His sheltering wing, To save thee from the hovering eagle’s power, And shield the unequalled misery of this hour! But no! thou would’st not! thence this signal fate! Thence art thou fallen! deserted! desolate! _William Gibson._