And the mystic walled land,
Whose dark sentinel hath planned,
To guard in his empire's range
From the ravages of change;
Holding Brahm in mortal feud,
Still adores the name of Boodh.
And the isles in Eastern main
Still are held by pagan chain.
Yet, where Ganga crolls her force,
Seeva's arm hath lost its force,
Jugnauth totters in his car;
And the coming Avatar
Clearly views the Hindoo sage,
In the Veda's sacred page.
Though uncounted centuries
Watched the pagod worship rise,
Long hath sunk the fervid hour
From the zenith of its power,
And a brighter day shall dawn
On the night of Hindostan.
Driven from their ancient thrones,
Human intellect disowns
Worship of the pagan throng;
And the demon altars, long
Banished from their chosen site,
Rise in shades of savage night;
Honoured, till the morning's glow
That last refuge shall o'erthrow.
Asia's night of utter gloom
Did a feeble ray illume.
Emblem was the crescent, fit,
Of the flame Mohammed lit.
Where its borrowed lustre played,
Heaven's starry host did fade.
Asia with the light was filled,
And its horn did Europe gild.
Slow, luxurious decay
Brooded o'er the Roman sway;
For her iron age had fled,
And her iron men were dead.
Nightly revels, loud debauch,
Discord with her livid torch,
Did the wheels of triumph drag,
Made the eagle's pinion flag;
And the wealth that conquest brings
Sank the "commonwealth of kings;"
Drowned the trumpet call of Fame
Left the empire but a name.
When the pampered serfs of Rome
Heard-from their Yemenian home-
From their fathers' dwelling place-
Rush the Desart's princely race,
Asia felt the Arab's bound;
Europe trembled at the sound:
And the Cæsars' ancient boast
Ceded to the turbaned host.
Still as circling years sped by
The proud flush of victory
Lit the Prophet's lunar crest
Did the banner green invest.
Past his youth in manhood strong
Islam did his rule prolong;
While his conquest tranquil lay
Under his maturer sway.
Later, the decline of age
Well denotes the storied page.
Pestilence, and sword, and flame
On Istamboul's turrets came,
Islam's empire to abate
Through the fading chalifate.
Mystic voice of Prophecy!
Is not the fulfilment nigh
Of the Prophet's term of flight
When a sudden burst of light
Brighter than the flush of morn
Shall relume the golden horn?
When, profaned by Gothic feet,
Roman Jove forsook his seat,
Empire left her ancient throne,
Nor the Capitol might own,
Her three hundred triumphs lost
In the waves that tempest tost.
Past her faith, her empire fled,
Ruin, with unsparing tread,
Trampled 'mid barbaric gloom
Temple, palace, tower, and tomb.
Tiber saw the Cæsar's halls
Moulder; nor could hallowed walls
Yield to fallen Rome defence
From the Pontine pestilence;
Yet was Empire's chosen home
Mid the seven hills of Rome.
From the ashes of the past,
From the gloom desertion cast,
From the spoils of time and man
Rose the mitred Vatican.
Then, as though the demon sway
Early Latium did obey,
In new form its power maintains
Rome tiara'd forges chains.
Still the stern, cold grasp of
power
Of the Cæsar's proudest hour-
"Empire" was the only prayer
Muttered from St. Peter's chair.
And the demon, too, of blood
That had haunted Tiber's flood,
From his chosen Sylla's sway
Scented afar off his prey.
From his slumbers cold and damp
That long in some Pontine swamp
Had sealed his unsated eyes
Glad did to the banquet rise,
And regained his ancient halls,
To his kindred spirits calls;
Hails them to each vacant shrine
Of the mouldering Palatine,
Together for revolving years
Harvests of crime, blood, and tears,
Alpine defiles old and stern,
Witness wheresoe'er ye turn,
To the blood of marytrs shed
Sepulchres of holy dead!
Witness bear the fields of Spain
To the papal questor's reign;
Monarch paid obedience strict
Awed by bulls or interdict.
Draws not nigh the final hour
Of the Prince of this world's power?
Totters every ancient throne
Where his regal pomp was shewn,
Nor to prop the fallen reign
Stands a single new-built fane.
Mark the hand of Prophecy!
Draws not the fulfilment nigh?
THE CHRISTIAN'S LIFE-BOAT.
BY MISS AGNES STRICKLAND.
WHEN Guilt's dread delusions and Passion's control
Assail the frail bark of the tempest-tost soul,
And Pleasure's gay convoy is scattered and gone,
And she drifts o'er the wild waves, deserted and lone ;-
What power can preserve her from wreck, while within She sinks with her burden of sorrow and sin,
As the lightnings of conscience reveal her dark path Towards the gulfs of destruction and billows of wrath?
Nay, fear not, sad vessel! though tempests deform
The vexed ocean of life, there's a hope midst the storm,
The life-boat of mercy unpurchased and free,
An ark of salvation for lost ones like thee.
In that life-boat, the sinner from endless despair
Finds a refuge, and Christians repose from their care;
For its charter the love of a Saviour has given –
Its passport is Faith, and its harbour is Heaven!
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