| |
| BENEATH the arch of eastern skies, | |
| On Syria’s barren wild, | |
| Where oft the scowling sand-storm flies, | |
| And hides the desert child, | |
| How beautiful to catch the sight | 5 |
| Of Tadmor’s mountain purple height! | |
| |
| And while the flush of evening glows | |
| Upon the western sky, | |
| Unequalled by the blushing rose | |
| Where Sharon’s zephyrs sigh, | 10 |
| How sweet to hear the camel-train | |
| Come tinkling home across the plain! | |
| |
| Gigantic loom the “desert ships,” | |
| As steadily they come; | |
| While joyfully the Kabyl skips | 15 |
| Along his houseless home, | |
| And shakes his spear with childlike glee, | |
| And cries, “The boundless waste for me!” | |
| |
| The boundless waste, the fruitless sea, | |
| Where scorching rays are cast, | 20 |
| The steed that with the wind can flee, | |
| When danger gathers fast, | |
| The scanty tent, the brackish spring, | |
| And Night, that comes with jewelled wing: | |
| |
| The solitude where footprints die, | 25 |
| And prowling lions tread, | |
| Where caravans of wealth sweep by, | |
| In watchfulness and dread: | |
| And sink to sleep and wake to know | |
| That Ishmael is still their foe. | 30 |
| |
| And now, behold, from towering hill, | |
| The howling city stand | |
| In silver moonlight sleeping still, | |
| So beautiful and grand; | |
| No sadder sight has earth than this: | 35 |
| ’T is Tadmor of the Wilderness. | |
| |
| Half buried in the flowerless sand | |
| Whirled by the eddying blast, | |
| Behold her marble columns stand, | |
| Huge relics of the past; | 40 |
| And o’er her gates of solid stone | |
| The sculptured eagle fronts the sun. | |
| |
| Palmyra! thou wert great indeed, | |
| When through thy portals passed | |
| The Persian on his weary steed, | 45 |
| And found a rest at last | |
| From Samiel’s breath, and war’s alarms, | |
| Beneath thy tall and waving palms. | |
| |
| Zenobia, mistress of the East, | |
| In glory rested here; | 50 |
| ’Neath yonder porch she held her feast, | |
| While satraps bowed in fear; | |
| And oft the silver strain came up, | |
| While Bacchus filled her golden cup. | |
| |
| And here she oped her portals wide, | 55 |
| And called the wise around; | |
| And hither, in her days of pride, | |
| The sage a refuge found; | |
| And Arab chief and Rabbin hung | |
| On gray-haired wisdom’s silver tongue. | 60 |
| |
| When Rome’s fierce thousands hither came, | |
| O’er yonder sands she fled, | |
| And here returned in grief and shame, | |
| A sovereign captive led; | |
| While loud her people’s wail arose | 65 |
| Above the shouts of conquering foes. | |
| |
| And when the gleaming cohorts flung | |
| Their banners o’er thy head, | |
| And cymbals clashed and clarions rung, | |
| Before Aurelian’s tread, | 70 |
| Then died thy race, and sank thy towers, | |
| And desert lightnings seared thy flowers. * * * * * | |
| |
