THE CHRISTIAD. 



Boos I. 



I SING the Cross ! — Ye white-robed angel choirs, 

 Who \now the chords of harmony to sweep ; 



Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires 



Were wont of old your hovering watch to keep, 

 Oh, now descend ; and with your harpings deep, 



Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream 

 Of music, — such as soothes the saint's last sleep, 



A-.\ ake my slumbering spirit from its dream, 

 And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme. 



Mourn ! Salem, mourn ! low lies thine humbled state. 



Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the ground I 

 Fallen is thy pride ! — Thine halls are desolate ! 



Where erst was heard the timbrel's 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, 



