One vast world-page remains unread; In thy tall cedars, Lebanon, I have not heard the nations' cries, The waste where Memnon's empire lay. Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide, Which Israel's mournful prophet sent! Where deep in night, the Bard of Kings Felt hands of fire direct his own, And sweep for God the conscious strings. I have not climbed to Olivet, Nor laid me where my Saviour lay, And left his trace of tears as yet By angel eyes unwept away; Nor watched at midnight's solemn time, The garden where his prayer and groan, Wrung by his sorrow and our crime, Rose to One listening ear alone. I have not kissed the rock-hewn grot, Nor knelt upon the sacred spot Where last his footsteps pressed the clay; Nor looked on that sad mountain head, PALESTINE. BLEST land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song, Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore, Blue sea of the hills!-in my spirit I hear And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown. Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green, Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and strong, Thy river, Ŏ Kishon, is sweeping along; Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain. There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came, And Napthali's stag, with his eye-balls of flame, There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang, When the princes of Issachar stood by her side, And the shout of a host in its triumph replied. Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen, There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw I tread where the TWELVE in their way-faring trod, GOD Where his blessing was heard and his lessons were taught, Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought. Oh, here with his flock the sad Wanderer cameThese hills he toiled over in grief, are the sameThe founts where he drank by the wayside still flow, And the same airs are blowing which breathed on his brow! And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, [feet; But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone. But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him! Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me! And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood, Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to bear, Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer. Yet loved of the Father, thy Spirit is near Oh, the outward hath gone!-but in glory and power, The SPIRIT Surviveth the things of an hour; EZEKIEL. CHAPTER XXXIII. 30-33. THEY hear thee not, O God! nor see• Are with the Levites' chant ascending, On Israel's bleeding bosom set, Our wasted shrines-who weeps for them? Who turneth from his gains away? Whose knee with mine is bowed to pray? Who, leaving feast and purpling cup, Takes Zion's lamentation up? A sad and thoughtful youth, I went In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame, |