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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
WE enter Kedron’s vale,—the stony height | |
| Once crowned with olive-forests, bounds our right: | |
| Age after age men yielded up their breath, | |
| Till millions slumbered in this glen of death; | |
| And here with those he loves, in peace to lie, | 5 |
| Is still the hapless Hebrew’s latest sigh. | |
| Ah! where so sadly sweet may scene be found! | |
| Though flowers no longer deck the shrunken mound, | |
| And plane and yew have ceased their shade to cast,— | |
| They, voiceless mourners, dead themselves at last,— | 10 |
| Here, deep below sad Salem’s eastern walls, | |
| The garish sunbeam mildly tempered falls; | |
| Perched on the tombs, soft plains the hermit-bird, | |
| And scarce the Pagan’s Allah-cry is heard: | |
| Through all, the Kedron pours its placid rill, | 15 |
| Sweet Nature’s child mid death surviving still; | |
| Its low-breathed voice like whispers from the graves, | |
| As their stone fronts its limpid wavelet laves. | |
| The rocks of Olivet are piled above, | |
| Whose shade steals down, as if in hallowing love. | 20 |
| In such a spot the soul, till Judgment-day, | |
| Might wish to leave her frail and cumbering clay, | |
| Revisiting, at moonlight’s holy hour, | |
| That vale of peace, where Death has built his bower. | |
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| Stately are Kedron’s tombs; in yon gray pile | 25 |
| Frowns Egypt’s strength, while Attic graces smile; | |
| Cornice and base are hewn from living rock, | |
| Its pointed summit braves Time’s lengthened shock: | |
| The murdered rests within,—those breezes bear | |
| To Fancy’s ear his last and anguished prayer. | 30 |
| Pause we awhile before this columned grot; | |
| Meet for calm musing seems the quiet spot, | |
| For here, tradition tells, the Apostles came, | |
| To hear those words which touched their hearts with flame. | |
| Still further, near yon bridge, whose arch of stone | 35 |
| By modern hand across the stream is thrown, | |
| A pile more massive, and of statelier height, | |
| Like Petra’s cliff-hewn temples, meets the sight. | |
| Strange towers its form and well may wake surprise; | |
| Its top, like flame, is pointing to the skies; | 40 |
| And yet no saint, a rebel slumbers here, | |
| But ah! to one fond heart how passing dear! | |
| The fair-haired Absalom, the gay of mien, | |
| Who proud and graceful as a god was seen: | |
| Hark to the royal father’s heart-breathed sigh! | 45 |
| See his rent robe, and sorrow-streaming eye! | |
| The crime of him no more he all forgave, | |
| And only mourned in dust the lost, the brave! | |
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