The stern Chaldean turns him from his lore Where he hath writ the mighty destiny Those stars revealed. Now seeks he thy dim shore, Tiberias! the spirit-minstrelsy Of unborn Ages breathes upon his lyre In soul-wrapt flame. But hush! the far-off notes Of timbrel-echoes ’mong the hills expire, As ’twere some seraph’s song o’er earth that floats And fades away in air—when lo! proud Miriam stands Before him and his prophecy commands. ----- [1] The “Feast of Tabernacles,” which lasted seven days. THE CHALDEAN’S PROPHECY. “Daughter of Judah! on thy brow Thy kingly line is proudly blent With Israel’s faith, and woman’s vow— Now love, now pride—each lineament. Thine is the faith thy fathers bore— A heritage despised, contemned— The fearful curse still lingers o’er Israel’s outcast tribes condemned. Thine is their faith—but dost thou deem _Thy soul is with the Nazarene_?” “False Prophet! had Ben Ezra’s ear But heard thy lying prophecy, Thou stand’st not, Heaven-daring here, To mock our Faith thus impiously! For Israel’s Lord is still our God! And Israel’s outcast tribes shall turn Back to these hills our fathers trod, And fallen Judah cease to mourn. False Seer! thy words I heed them not— Those stars are dim thine eyes have sought.” . . . . . . Darkness o’er the Eternal City!—gloom O’er her thousand palaces! and Night, Deep, solemn Night! broods ever o’er the tomb Of her vast temples, fallen in their might. Still to their broken shrines worn pilgrims come— And ’neath their mighty columns, sunken low, The fierce Bedouin seeks his midnight home, And treacherous lurks where footsteps chance to go. Proud Rome! thy thousand hills are silent now— Where waved the “Imperial Eagle” o’er their brow.[2] Yet o’er her mighty temples’ fallen shrines Still sleeps the sunshine ’mid the shadows there; There many a wearied pilgrim-wanderer finds A peaceful rest from Life’s dark toil and care. And there awaiteth many a scattered one Of Israel’s people—till the joyful day Shall see the long “lost tribe of Judah” come Once more to thy blest land, oh Palestine! for aye, And here, ’mid fallen Rome, Ben Ezra bides— _Miriam is not_—earth hath no joy besides. . . . . . .