DEPARTURE OF THE ISRAELITES FROM EGYPT.

THE dawn was grey in Egypt. Broken clouds,
In long and wavering companies, o'erhung
The realms of Pharoah and the land of Nile,
Tinct with the crimson of the coming morn.
Faint hues of struggling light enwrapt the piles,
The pillar'd halls, and domes, and columns huge,
That with ambitious effort seemed to pierce

The chambers of the sky, and rest in air.
Red lays were on the pyramids. Their tops,
Companiors of the clouds, did seem to wear
The went lustre from their borders flung,

A murmur rises from a gathered throng
Of bright rejoicing youth and reverend age,
A band, with groups and trains diversified,
And of dim length immeasurable :—afar,
Beyond the bases of high pillars old,
The throng is wandering on, heavy and slow,
Like some wide deluge, o'er the distant land.

Thus, as with measured strength the living tide
Rolls its long masses on, the man of God,
Moses,―the servant of the mightiest King,
Whose rule is through immensity from heaven,—
In solemn grace, and mein majestic, stands
And views, with tranquil glance, the impressive

scene.

Onward, still on, they move;-the weary eye
No end to the long column can discern―
But something like a cloudy fire is seen,
Hovering afar, 'twixt Migdol and the sea.
The morning seems to pause-and wavering rays
That play on wreaths of mist, high in the East,
Appear to tremble 'gainst the envious bars

That check the lingering glory of the dawn.

A voice, as of command, through the deep air,
Above the countless throng is heard to move,
And the whole plain is motion. As they tread
In grateful temper on, a song, out-poured
From lips and hearts unnumbered, seems to rise
As the broad concourse lift the joyous lay:

I.

"We are passing on to the heaving main,
From the bitter curse and the bondsman's chain;
From the taunts of the vile and the proud we go,
To the land where rich honey and milk will flow;
Where the smile of God on our homes will lie,
Like the calm, pure light of a summer sky;

We

go, where peace in our hearts may dwell, We bid to the region of plagues farewell.

II.

"We haste from these borders, where now the wail

Of desolate mothers is on the gale;

The cries of the first-born in death we hear,

Fainter they wax on the pitying ear;