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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
WHERE are thy walls, proud Jericho?—the blast | |
| Of Israel’s horn to earth thy towers might cast, | |
| But Time more surely lays thy bulwarks low; | |
| Yonder the Jordan sweeps with tireless flow, | |
| And Pisgah rears his earth-o’ergazing brow, | 5 |
| Defying storm and thunder,—where art thou? | |
| Thy towers have left no stone; not e’en a palm | |
| Waves on thy site amidst the burning calm: | |
| A few green turf-clad mounds alone remain, | |
| Like those which rise on Troy’s deserted plain. | 10 |
| Gone is that costly plant, a queen’s fair hand | |
| To Salem brought from Sheba’s spicy land, | |
| The weeping balsam, whose nectareous dew, | |
| More prized than silver, well the trader knew: | |
| Yet still one flower above its flinty bed, | 15 |
| Renowned by minstrels, lifts its lowly head; | |
| White rose of Jericho! so small yet sweet, | |
| That oft the way-worn traveller stoops to greet, | |
| What dost thou in this desert? vain thy bloom | |
| As the lamp’s light that gilds the cheerless tomb; | 20 |
| Vain opes thy bosom to the thankless air, | |
| No painted insect flies to nestle there; | |
| Thy scents embalm the ground, but useless shed | |
| As gifts of good upon the ungrateful head. | |
| Alas! fair rose, the barren plain we see, | 25 |
| How can it warm to life, have charms for thee? | |
| Yet here, exhaling sweets, thou dost remain, | |
| Like hope fond lingering in this world of pain, | |
| Whose bright and holy smile will ne’er depart, | |
| Though every joy beside may fly the heart. | 30 |
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