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Who is yon form, stretched on the earth's cold bed, With smitten soul and tears of agony Mourning the past? Bowed is the lofty headRayless the orbs that flashed with victory. Over the raging waves of human will
The Saviour's spirit walked- and all was still!
ROSCOE.
PALESTINE.
PALESTINE.
FAR stretching thoughts are thine, Egyptian land Of desert and oasis, and old Nile,
Fountain of myriad dreams, and monster pile, Casting each giant shadow o'er the strand Of long- gone ages, peopled by a band
Of thine embalmed shapes, that erst the while Did human hearts and human cares beguile With emblematic feast and pageant grand! Thy spectral sepulchres, whose pictured life
Mocks the dark curtain of the fearful tomb, With mimic shows of living coil and strife. Say! can their priestly wisdom pierce the gloom
Of thick oblivion, from the floods that lave The fiery spirit in the cold deep grave?
No, thou world's wonder! though thy spells begin With beauty's morning, though their murmurs call