PALESTINE.

REFT of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn,
Mourn, widow'd queen, forgotten Sion, mourn!
Is this thy place, sad City, this thy throne,
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone?
While suns unblest their angry lustre fling,
And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring?—
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy
view'd?

Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued?

No martial myriads muster in thy gate;
No suppliant nations in thy Temple wait;
No prophet bards, thy glittering courts among,
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song:

But lawless Force, and meagre Want is there, And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear; While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid,

Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade.

Ye guardian saints! ye warrior sons of heaven, To whose high care Judea's state was given ! O wont of old your nightly watch to keep, A host of gods, on Sion's towery steep! If 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 lov'd so well; (For oft, 'tis 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!

Ea

race of faded pomp renew:

And as the Seer on Pisgah's topmost brow
With glistening eye beheld the plain below,
With prescient ardour drank the scented gale,
And bade the opening glades of Canaan hail ;
Her eagle eye shall scan the prospect wide,
From Carmel's cliffs to Almotana's tide;
The flinty waste, the cedar-tufted hill,

The liquid health of smooth Ardeni's rill;

The grot, where, by the watch-fire's evening

blaze,

The robber riots, or the hermit prays;

Or, where the tempest rives the hoary stone,
The wintry top of giant Lebanon.

Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold, Those stormy seats the warrior Druses hold;

110 more for you th' obedient gale

Swells the white bosom of the Tyrian sail;

Though now no more your glittering marts unfold

Sidonian dyes and Lusitanian gold;

Though not for you the pale and sickly slave
Forgets the light in Ophir's wealthy cave;
Yet yours the lot, in proud contentment blest,
Where cheerful labour leads to tranquil rest.
No robber rage the ripening harvest knows;
And unrestrain❜d the generous vintage flows:
Nor less your sons to manliest deeds aspire,
And Asia's mountains glow with Spartan fire.
So when, deep sinking in the rosy main,
The westenr sun forsakes the Syrian plain,