Classic Poem

BY HARVEY D. LITTLE.

On Judah's hill the towering palm
Still spreads its branches to the sky,
The same through years of storm and calm,
As erst it was in days gone by,
When Israel's king poured forth his psalm
In strains of sacred melody.

And Lebanon, thy forests green
Are waving in the lonely wind,
To mark the solitary scene,
Where wandering Israel's hopes are shrined;
But the famed Temple's ancient sheen
The pilgrim seeks, in vain, to find.

And Kedron's brook, and Jordan's tide,
Roll onward to the sluggish sea:
But where is Salem's swollen pride,
Her chariots, and her chivalry,
Her Tyrian robes in purple dyed,
Her warlike hosts, who scorned to flee?

Gone! all are gone! In sullen mood
The cruel Arab wanders there,
In search of human spoils and blood;
The victims of his wily snare:
And where the holy prophets stood
The wild beasts make their secret lair.

But, oh! Judea, there shall come
For thee another glorious morn;
When thy retreats shall be a home
For thousands pining now forlorn
In distant lands; — no more to roam
The objects of disdain and scorn.