'TWAS evening. On Judea's vine-clad hills
The sun's declining rays yet lingered,
The olive groves, the clusters of the vine,
Gleam'd in the fading light, and brighter seem'd
By the soft light of the retiring day.
The gales of even sported 'mong the leaves,
The streams sent forth their strains, lulling each sense,
And waking thoughts worthy of Eden's bow'rs.
There, in the distance, stood old Carmel's hill,
All clad with fig-trees, and the blooming vine,
Whose fragrant odors, and whose cooling shades,
Invited contemplation and repose.
Far off, in grandeur, Lebanon arose--
Its cedars, lost in clouds, wav'd in the wind,
And woke wild murmurs and unearthly sounds,
Which peal'd like music in the hush of night,
And melody was breathed in every strain.
Hermon, the vine-clad hill, lent to the scene
Enchantment--lent delight. Old Jordan's rush
Blended with Kedron's pensive murmuring:
Its flower-strewn bank sent up its rich perfume,
Whose fragrant lilies, with their beauteous tints,
Contrasted with the rose of Jericho.
'Twas the calm hush of eve--all round was still:
Nature herself seemed hush'd to deep repose,
Save the low melody of sighing winds--
The pure sweet harmony of heav'n's own harp--
The rush of distant torrents, borne along
On the light breeze, through groves of date and palm,
Then in the plain died noiselessly away.
But now behold! Up Calvary's rugged steep
Two men, in senatorial garb, ascend;
Their mien is sad, and solemn is their pace,
As on they press up to its loftiest height.
Dejection deep hangs on each gloomy brow,
And scarce their manhood could repress their tears.
The height is gain'd--before them stands a cross--
On it a victim, pale, and cold, and dead,
Yet peaceful as in slumber.
On his brow
A crown of thorns, as if in mockery,
Wreath'd in derision for a diadem.
Though pierced and bleeding, yet compassion play'd
Upon the still, pale features of the dead.
'Twas he the Jews in scorn call'd Nazarene,
Who here, upbraided, hung unsepulchr'd.
Still night was closing round,
Darkness was mingling with the tints of day;
For night and silence gazed upon the scene--
Companions meet for such a scene as this.
Day fled from it amazed--a sight so dark [102]
Ne'er burst upon it since creation's birth,
When suffering Love, expiring on the tree,
Proclaim'd to man a love as strong as death.
The nobles look with awe upon the scene--
A scene from which the sun himself shrunk back.
Then circling all the corse in snowy folds,
They bear it slowly, silently away.
They reach a tomb untenanted before,
And there in silence now the dead is laid--
Laid, as they thought, to seek its kindred dust,
And be awaked but by the trump of God.
And now the last sad offices are paid,
The tomb is closed, the twain have left the spot,
Musing upon the virtues of the dead.
Now up the steep a Roman guard ascends,
Full armed in all the panoply of war,
With banners flying, as to meet the foe--
To watch the sleeper in his place of rest.
Their spears and helms flash in the moon's pale beams,
As slow, yet firm, they seek the rocky tomb.
The watch is set--night flies on leaden wing--
Longer to them than on the battle plain,
Amid the strife and stern alarms of war;
For men who've kept their vigils in the camp,
Tremble to stand where death and silence reign.
But, lo! the east is ting'd with thousand dyes--
The groves again to harmony awake--
Darkness recedes--light beams on all things fair,
And radiant morn bursts on the joyous earth.
The sleeper moves not yet--the monster's grasp
Clutches him still, and all within the tomb
Speaks of the silence, calm, and gloom of death.
Satan exults--his victory seems secure--
Saints tremble, and the lonely twelve despair.
The sun is sinking in the west again,
And yet the tenant of the tomb is still.
The soldiers' crests reflect his fading rays,
And sable night begins her gloomy reign.
Now in the star-lit vault the moon appears,
Shedding her soft, pure light o'er hill and stream,
And gleaming brightly on each glittering spear
That guards the silent dwelling of the dead.
'Tis midnight! but the chain is still unbroke
Which binds the victim to his narrow home.
Hope droops, and even expectation fails,
And faith has turned in anguish from the scene.
Day is at hand--the listless warriors now
Lean on their swords, impatient for the dawn,
And wonder why brave men should watch the dead,
Or circle thus with arms the sepulchre.
But lo! they reel--they grasp their swords in vain:
An angel's hand hath smote them, and a shock
Vast as an earthquake's rolls the stone away.
Death struggles now; but life has overcome,
And vanquish'd him within his own domains.
The dead now lives--a captive now no more--
He rises! but to rule o'er all his foes--
He lives to cheer his friends--give smiles for gloom--
Each tear to dry--each pang and pain to soothe--
A foretaste slight of joys, far purer joys,
Reserved for them at his right hand above.
The weeping few rejoice--the Lord is ris'n--
The grave has lost its pow'r--he lives--he lives--
The first fruits of the dead--to die no more.
O tremble, grave! thy conq'ror is our King--
He lives--we, too, shall live, near to his throne:
Thy reign is past--thou canst not bind our race--
The victory is ours--be God's the praise. |
