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PALESTINE.
E'en at its noon thy spirits from the thrall Of countless years, and for their still voice win Attention from the tumult and the din
Of trumpet tones- now droops thy pall O vast Osirian! with sweeping fall Still thou art Egypt, type of Earth and Sin. Darkness is on thee- to thy slaves we turn
Thy captive menials in their toil and shame, And track th' enfranchised feet whose watchfires burn
God- lit through pathless deserts, to the plain Of burning Sinai, and its thunderings loud, Heralds of light, pavilioned by the cloud.
All hail to Palestine, the wanderer's rest, And Solyma the Holy in her pride! She who among the nations, by the side Of Thebes and Tyre hath reared her golden crest; Devoutly bearing on her gem- starred breast
The veil of heaven's high mystery denied To Nature's throned Isis, fain to hide Her mythic form beneath a shrouding vest. Hail- hail to Palestine! all hail the sod
Drunk with the blood of martyrs, and hot tears Wrung from the burning hearts of those that trod Through cruel ways their meed of darkest years!
Thy shrouded splendour, and thy victim's doom, Witness alike of light beyond the tomb.