The ‘beauty of Israel’ forever is fled,
      And low lie the noble and strong;
    Ye daughters of music encircle the dead,
      And chant the funereal song.

    O never let Gath know their sorrowful doom,
      Nor Askelon hear of their fate;
    Their daughters would scoff while we lay in the tomb,
      The relics of Israel’s great.

    As strong as young lions were they in the field;
      Like eagles they never knew fear;
    As dark autumn clouds were the studs of their shield,
      And swifter than wind flew their spear.

    My brother, my friend, must I bid thee adieu! 
      Ah yes, I behold thy deep wound—­
    Thy bosom, once warm as my tears that fast flow,
      Is colder than yonder clay mound.

    Ye mountains of Gilboa, never may dew
      Descend on your verdure so green;
    Loud thunder may roar, and fierce lightning may glow
      But never let showers be seen.

    Your verdure may scorch in the bright blazing sun,
      The night-blast may level your wood;
    For beneath it, unhallowed, were broken and thrown
      The arms of the chosen of God.

    Ye daughters of Israel, snatch from your brow
      Those garlands of eglantine fair;
    Let cypress and nightshade, the emblems of woe. 
      Be wreathed in your beautiful hair.

    Approach, and with sadness encircle the dead
      And chant the funereal song—­
    The ‘beauty of Israel’ forever is fled,
      And low lie the noble and strong.

Some other effusions, probably of a later date, we will here insert, not only for their merit, but to show what those powers were which she sacrificed, when she turned from the cultivation of her fancy to that of her higher and nobler faculties.

    ENCAMPMENT OF ISRAELITES AT ELIM.

    “Slowly and sadly, through the desert waste,
    The fainting tribes their dreary pathway traced;
    Far as the eye could reach th’ horizon round,
    Did one vast sea of sand the vision bound. 
    No verdant shrub, nor murmuring brook was near,
    The weary eye and sinking soul to cheer;
    No fanning zephyr lent its cooling breath,
    But all was silent as the sleep of death;
    Their very footsteps fell all noiseless there
    As stifled by the moveless, burning air;
    And hope expired in many a fainting breast,
    And many a tongue e’en Egypt’s bondage blest. 
    Hark! through the silent waste, what murmur breaks? 
    What scene of beauty ’mid the desert wakes? 
    Oh! ’tis a fountain! shading trees are there. 
    And their cool freshness steals out on the air! 
    With eager haste the fainting pilgrims rush,
    Where Elim’s cool and sacred waters gush;
    Prone on the bank, where murmuring fountains flow,
    Their wearied, fainting, listless