trouble brewing in the
far North and then in a moment the northern invaders settled in the gates
of the City.

But the poetry of Jeremiah had other strains. I conclude this lecture with
selections which deal with the same impending judgment, yet are wistful
and tender, the poet taking as his own the sin and sufferings of the
people with whose doom he was charged.

The first of these passages is as devoid of hope as any we have already
seen, but like Christ's mourning over the City breathes the regret of a
great love--a profound and tender Alas!

Jerusalem, who shall pity,
Who shall bemoan thee?
Or who will but turn him to ask
After thy welfare?

Then follow lines of doom without reprieve and the close comes:--

She that bore seven hath fainted,
She breathes out her life.
Set is her sun in the daytime,
Baffled and shamed;
And their remnant I give to the sword
In face of their foes.(86)

In the following also the poet's heart is with his people even while he
despairs of them. The lines, VIII. 14-IX. 1, of which 17 and 19_b_ are
possibly later insertions, are addressed to the country-folk of Judah and
Benjamin:--

For what sit we still?
Sweep together,
And into the fortified cities,
That there we may perish!
For our God(87) hath doomed us to perish,
And given us poison to drink,
For to Him(88) have we sinned.
Hope for peace there was once--
But no good--
For a season of healing--
Lo, panic.(89)
From Dan the sound has been heard,(90)
The hinnying of his horses;
With the noise of the neighing of his stallions
All the land is aquake.
For that this grief hath no comfort,(91)
Sickens my heart upon me.
Hark to the cry of my people
Wide o'er the land--
"Is the Lord not in Sion,
Is there no King there?"(92)

Harvest is over, summer is ended
And we are not saved!
For the breach of the Daughter of my people
I break, I darken,
Horror hath seized upon me,
Pangs as of her that beareth.(93)
Is there no balm in Gilead,
Is there no healer?
Why will the wounds never stanch
Of the daughter of my people?
O that my head were waters,
Mine eyes a fountain of tears,
That day and night I might weep
For the slain of my people!

Such in the simple melodies of his music and in the varie