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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
HAIL to the hills where Desolation weeps, | |
| Yet holy watch untiring Memory keeps! | |
| Hail to the vales where Plenty laughs no more, | |
| Or mantling vines display their purple store, | |
| But every rock with history’s wreath is crowned, | 5 |
| And every barren glen is hallowed ground! | |
| Hail to the streams that flow not now along | |
| Blessed by the saint, or charmed by holy song, | |
| Yet seem the haunt of angels, that still glide | |
| By tree and cave, and skim the silent tide! | 10 |
| Hail to the spot Heaven favored, land divine, | |
| Revered, long-suffering, beauteous Palestine! | |
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| Ah! who so cold can gaze, and wander here, | |
| Nor feel his bosom thrill, nor shed a tear? | |
| Thrill, when he thinks of glorious times of yore, | 15 |
| And weep to know that glory ever o’er. | |
| The ground he treads a thousand saints have trod, | |
| Prophets, far-visioned bards, and seers of God. | |
| The ruined tower, the once-green olived hill, | |
| The stony waste, the half-choked fount and rill, | 20 |
| Each tells its tale that prompts a hope or sigh, | |
| Linked with celestial memories ne’er to die. | |
| The harp of Judah sounds o’er Sharon’s vale, | |
| Though there no more the roses scent the gale: | |
| Despite the Roman’s plough, and Moslem’s shrine, | 25 |
| Fancy beholds the Temple’s splendors shine; | |
| High stands on Olivet that sacred form, | |
| Bright in our world as rainbow in a storm; | |
| By Kedron’s tomb-lined brook he wanders slow, | |
| Teaches his followers mid those caves below, | 30 |
| Sheds tears loved Salem’s bitter fate to tell, | |
| Or leans and talks by blessed Samaria’s well: | |
| Yes, those far ages flash a heavenly ray, | |
| That hallows every scene we here survey. | |
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