O pitying Mother! souls of light,
And saints, and martyrs old!
Pray for a weak and sinful knight,
A suffering man uphold.

Then let the Paynim work his will,
And death unbind my chain,
Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill
The sun shall fall again.

THE HOLY LAND.

FROM LAMARTINE.

I HAVE not felt, o'er seas of sand,
The rocking of the desert bark;
Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand,
By Hebron's palm-trees cool and
dark;

Nor pitched my tent at even-fall,

On dust where Job of old has lain, Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall, The dream of Jacob o'er again.

One vast world-page remains unread;

How shine the stars in Chaldea's sky, How sounds the reverent pilgrim's tread,

How beats the heart with God so nigh!

How round gray arch and column lone The spirit of the old time broods, And sighs in all the winds that moan Along the sandy solitudes !

In thy tall cedars, Lebanon,

I have not heard the nations' cries, Nor seen thy eagles stooping down

Where buried Tyre in ruin lies. The Christian's prayer I have not said In Tadmor's temples of decay, Nor startled, with my dreary tread, The waste where Memnon's empire lay.

Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide,

O Jordan! heard the low lament, Like that sad wail along thy side

Which Israel's mournful prophet sent !

Nor thrilled within that grotto lone Where, deep in night, the Bard of Kings