Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state, Thy glittering fanes are level'd with the ground! Fallen is thy pride!--Thine halls are desolate! Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly sound, And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, There breeds the wild fox lonely,--and aghast Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. III. It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn, That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; And, with most bitter persecuting ire, Pursued his footsteps till the last day dawn Rose on his fortunes--and thou saw'st the fire That came to light the world, in one great flash expire. IV. Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light, To paint the agonies that Jesus bore! Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might, To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore; While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour, And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim! May a frail mortal dare the theme explore? May he to human ears his weak song frame? Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name. V. Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come! Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, And give him eloquence who else were dumb, And raise to feeling and to fire his note! And thou, Urania! who dost still devote Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote, Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine, And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. VI. When from the temple's lofty summit prone, Satan, o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there, The son of God confess'd in splendour shone: Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, * * * * * Fled the stern king of Hell--and with the glare Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. VII. Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent His northering course, while round, in dusky state The assembling fiends their summon'd troops augment; Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, While as they pass'd to regions more severe, The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament The solitary gale; and, fill'd with fear, The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. VIII.