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Amid the noblest of the land
This was the bravest warrior
And had he not high honor?
In that deep grave without a name,
And stand, with glory wrapped around,
O lonely tomb in Moab's land !
Cecil Frances Alerander.
Olivet, the Mount.
on Olivet's famed mount we stand, And view once more this sad but glorious land; Here, lost in thought, the bard might linger long, But we must break our dream, and close our song. The sun with purple paints the western hills, And earth and heaven a holy quiet fills; Calm in her desolation Salem sleeps, Round Omar's mosque the tall green cypress weeps; Soft gleam the rays on church and convent-spire,
And each slight minaret is tipped with fire:
That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine !
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line,
Like a pure spirit o’er its earthly shrine. Up Padan-aram's height abrupt and bare
A pilgrim toiled, and oft on day's decline Looked pale, then paused for eve's delicious air: The summit gained, he knelt, and breathed his evening He spread his cloak and slumbered, — darkness fell
Upon the twilight hills ; a sudden sound
Clouds heavy with the tempest gathered round,
Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound,
Gigantic volume upon volume wound,
Voices are heard, -a choir of golden strings,
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose; Then chariot-wheels, the nearer rush of wings;
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows,
It thunders, - the resplendent gates unclose; Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height,
fiery waving wings, and star-crowned brows, Millions on millions, brighter and more bright, Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light.
But two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand,
Like cherub-kings, with lifted, mighty plume, Fixed, sun-bright eyes, and looks of high command :
They tell the Patriarch of his glorious doom;
Father of countless myriads that shall come, Sweeping the land like billows of the sea,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom, Till He is given whom angels long to see, And Israel's splendid line is crowned with Deity.
HITE as hot steel the broad sun mounts the skies,
The burning vapors quivering as they rise. No beast, no wandering bird, doth hither come, Not e’en an insect wakes her drowsy hum. But lo! the hills on which some dark curse rests, Barren their sides, all rocks their dreary crests, Approach with frowns, and form a savage dell, Where snakes retreat, and vultures love to dwell. Silent and strange along this craggy way, Rise countless towers that brave thy hand, Decay! Did busy men once live, and flourish here, Their palaces yon piles so old and drear?
- scan each building's dark recess; What mean those crumbling bones, that mouldered
dress? Yes, these are tombs, as many a mummy shows, Where man in distant ages found repose; The street of graves! where kings laid down their pride, And many a restless phantom yet may glide : Murdered Longinus here may wander still, And she whose dust was laid by Tibur's hill, Far-famed Zenobia, for her kingdom wail, Sweeping with viewless form the desert gale.
Deserted Tadmor! queen of Syria's wild !