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.