When Persecution's ruthless power

Ungodly murderers sent abroad,

These wilds, at midnight's deepest hour,
Have heard those hymns sung out to God

Which died away by Babel streams,
Like wailings of the desert wind,

When exiled hearts recall'd the dreams
Of homes far left behind,

And scenes of Zion's holy hill,

Where all thy echoes then were still.

Thy strains were as eternal ties

Of sympathy, which bound in one
The souls of those that could despise
All influence else below the sun;

And through these solitudes though far
Their weary feet were doom'd to roam,

Bright as the glory of a star

Their hopes were pointed home

To Him, who, o'er this scene of clay,

Once wander'd houselessly as they.

The hoary wing of ages hath

Pass'd o'er this world of woe and crime, Since slept the holy Bards in death

Who woke thy harmonies sublime;
But time, which sheds its darkness o'er
The pride of all created things,
Can never dim the heavenly lore

Which melted from thy strings,

Nor sever from immortal thought
The wisdom that thy light has taught.

Thine is a sun which cannot set

A

power whose influence cannot die ; The hand its cunning may forget,

And stars grow dim amid the sky, But thou shalt to the soul be known, As that which can a charm impart, When all the earth-born hopes of man Have faded from the heart

A treasure that shall bless him more

Than all the wealth the world e'er bore.

"Twas thine to wake triumphal dirge

O'er Egypt's ocean-buried band, And thine the lofty plaints to urge, Of him who dwelt in Uzz's land;

And it was thine to bear abroad

That radiance of prophetic song,

Which taught the love and truth of God The sons of men among ;

And thine to pour, in Salem's halls, Those strains which every heart recalls.

My early days have been upon

The lonely mountains pass'd away; But I have other longings known, Than those that live but to decay: And though I ne'er may trace that land Which gave thy sacred anthems birth, How were I bless'd to reach it, and

To kneel upon its earth—

That earth which holier feet have trod,

Than those that bore the Ark of God!

To share one drop of Hermon's dew,
To pull one rose in Sharon's vale,
And see the vines on Carmel's brow
Spread their bright glories to the gale,

I'd face the desert blast, which bids
The burning sky be wrapt in gloom,
Steer on through wind-rear'd pyramids,
And brave the dread simoom,

If Heaven but will'd to bear me o'er
The waves to Jordan's hallow'd shore.

And though Engedi's caverns vast,

Far by the lone and lifeless seaThe pilgrim's home in ages past—

My destined dwelling-place should be,

The lonely heart might have its meed,
The soul its silent power of prayer;

And if I may be bless'd indeed,

Could Heaven not bless me there,

And guard my orisons sublime,

In regions of the hallow'd clime?

Yet all is vain, but that which wakes
The longings that can never die;

And mortals err, when will partakes

Of aught that leads not to the sky. No feelings of unholy strife

Can wrest the rod from reason's hand,

And point to days of after life

Within a promised land;

Else he who sleeps on Pisgah lone
Had pass'd to goodly Lebanon.

I've shared of hope like other men—
I've known the joys which others knew;
And life has had its moments when

Thorns but remain'd where roses grew:

And he who recks of earthly fame,
May live to find the charm depart,

Or but the fading laurels claim

To wreathe a wither'd heart.

The charm, bless'd Lyre, that springs of thee,

Shall live when time hath ceased to be.