436 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. He taught his scholars the rule of three, And the wants of the littlest child he knew: He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, And made him forget he was old and poor; "And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead,” Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He smoked his pipe in the balmy air Every night when the sun went down, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown; He sat at his door one midsummer night, Gently, gently he bowed his head. . . . There were angels waiting for him, I know; JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT. 437 JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT.-DISRAELI. THE HE broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers, and frequent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous than those of Rome: for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary, while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are ignorant of the Capitolain and Aventine Mounts. The broad steep of Sion, crowned with the tower of David; nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built, alas! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool; farther on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long, winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary, called the Street of Grief, because there the most illustrious of the human as well as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine Son of the most favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suffering and shame, which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem of triumph and of honor: passing over groups and masses of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedek built his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial capital; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshipped before every altar in Rome. The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have 438 DEATH OF MARMION. travelled over the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and sighs among the cypress-groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze that has travelled over the plain of Sharon from the sea? Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that they could not save? Their spirits surely would linger on the land where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate Omnipotence had shed human tears. Who can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city? There might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from no rivalry with the brightest and the wisest of other lands; but the lawgiver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed; the monarch whose reign has ceased for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all nations of the earth; the teacher whose doctrines have modelled civilized Europe; the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, and the greatest of reformers; what race, extinct or living, can produce three such men as these? The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The. wailing breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads over the purple sky; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid; all becomes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat. The tower of David merges into obscurity; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulchre is a beacon-light. DEATH OF MARMION.-SIR WALTER SCOTT. WTwo hot, eten, gore, ITH that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen, drenched with And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms were smeared with blood and sand; DEATH OF MARMION. Dragged from among the horses' feet, When doffed his casque, he felt free air, "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Redeem my pennon! charge again! Cry: Marmion to the rescue!' Vain! That shout shall ne'er be heard again! Let Stanley charge with spur of fire- Must I bid twice? hence, varlets! fly! They parted, and alone he lay. Clare drew her from the sight away, Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring, Oh, woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; 439 440 DEATH OF MARMION. Scarce were the piteous accents said, Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears, She filled the helm, and back she hied, A monk supporting Marmion's head; Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, It may not be this dizzy trance-- The war, that for a space did fail, A light on Marmion's visage spread, With dying hand, above his head And shouted "Victory!- Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" |