PALESTINE. REFT of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued? No martial myriads muster in thy gate; Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade. Ye guardian saints, ye warrior sons of heaven, To whose high care Judæa's state was given, O wont of old your nightly watch to keep, A host of gods, on Sion's towery steepIf e'er your secret footsteps linger still By Siloa's fount, or Tabor's echoing hill; If e'er your song on Salem's glories dwell, And mourn the captive land you loved so well; (For oft, 't is said, in Kedron's palmy vale Mysterious harpings swell the midnight gale, And, blest as balmy dews that Hermon cheer, Melt in soft cadence on the pilgrim's ear;) Forgive, blest spirits, if a theme so high Mock the weak notes of mortal minstrelsy; Yet, might your aid this anxious breast inspire With one faint spark of Milton's seraph fire, Then should my Muse ascend with bolder flight, And wave her eagle-plumes exulting in the light. O happy once in heaven's peculiar love, Delight of men below, and saints above; Though, Salem, now the spoiler's ruffian hand Has loosed his hell-hounds o'er thy wasted land; Though weak, and whelmed beneath the storms of fate, Thy house is left unto thee desolate; Though thy proud stones in cumbrous ruin fall, And seas of sand o'ertop thy mouldering wall; blaze, The robber riots, or the hermit prays; Or, where the tempest rives the hoary stone, Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold, Those stormy seats the warrior Druses hold; From Norman blood their lofty line they trace, Their lion courage proves their generous race. They, only they, while all around them kneel In sullen homage to the Thracian steel, Teach their pale despot's waning moon to fear The patriot terrors of the mountain spear. Yes, valorous chiefs, while yet your sabres shine, The native guard of feeble Palestine, O, ever thus, by no vain boast dismayed, Defend the birthright of the cedar shade. What though no more for you the obedient gale Though not for you the pale and sickly slave So when, deep sinking in the rosy main, My sorrowing fancy quits the happier height, And southward throws her half-averted sight. |