The eye can note one sacred spot
By Pride and Self profaned not
A green place in the waste of thought
Where deed or word hath rendered less "The sum of human wretchedness," And Gratitude looks forth to bless
The simple burst of tenderest feeling
From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing,
For blessing on the hand of healing, -
Better than Glory's pomp will be
That green and blessed spot to me —
A palm-shade in Eternity!-
Something of Time which
may invite The purified and spiritual sight To rest on with a calm delight.
And when the summer winds shall sweep
With their light wings my place of sleep,
And mosses round my head-stone creep —
If still, as Freedom's rallying sign,
Upon the young heart's altars shine
The very fires they caught from mine
If words my lips once uttered still,
In the calm faith and steadfast will
Of other hearts, their work fulfill
Perchance with joy the soul may learn
These tokens, and its eye discern
The fires which on those altars burn-
A marvellous joy that even then,
The spirit hath its life again,
In the strong, hearts of mortal men.
Take, lady, then, the gift I bring,
No gay and graceful offering -
No flower-smile of the laughing spring.
Midst the green buds of Youth's fresh May,
With Fancy's leaf-enwoven bay,
My sad and sombre gift I lay.
And if it deepens in thy mind
A sense of suffering human kind
The outcast and the spirit-blind:
Oppressed and spoiled on every side,
By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride,
Life's common courtesies denied ;
Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust,
Children by want and misery nursed,
Tasting life's bitter cup at first;
If to their strong appeals which come
From fireless hearth, and crowded room,
And the close alley's noisome gloom-
Though dark the hands upraised to thee
In mute beseeching agony,
Thou lend'st thy woman's sympathy
Not vainly on thy gentle shrine,
Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine
Their varied gifts, I offer mine.
BLEST land of Judea thrice hallowed of song
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;
In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.
With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.
Blue sea of the hills!-in my spirit I hear
Thy waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear;
Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,
And thy spray on the dust of His sandals was thrown.
Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene ;
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee !
Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and strong,
Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along;
Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain,
And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.
There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came,
And Napthali's stag, with his eye-balls of flame,
And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on,
For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son!
There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang
To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang,
When the princes of Issachar stood by her side,
And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.
Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen,
With the mountains around, and the valleys between;
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The song of the angels rose sweet on the air.
And Bethany's palm trees in beauty still throw
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;
But where are the sisters who hastened to greet
The lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet?
I tread where the TWELVE in their way-faring trod;
I stand where they stood with the CHOSEN OF GOD -
Where His blessing was heard and His lessons were taught,
Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought.
Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came
These hills He toiled over in grief, are the same.
The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow,
And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow!
And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet,
But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet;
For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone,
And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone.
But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode
Of Humanity clothed in the brightness of God?
Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim,
It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him!
Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when,
In love and in meekness, He moved among men ;
And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea, In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me !
And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,
Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to bear,
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer.
Yet loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near
To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of Thy love is the same even now,
As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow.
Oh, the outward hath gone! - but in glory and power,
The SPIRIT surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the hearts secret altar is burning the same!
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