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| YE ancients of the earth, beneath whose shade | |
| Swept the fierce banners of earth’s mightiest kings, | |
| When millions for a battle were arrayed, | |
| And the sky darkened with the vulture’s wings. | |
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| Long silence followed on the battle-cries; | 5 |
| First the bones whitened, then were seen no more; | |
| The summer grasses sprang for summer skies, | |
| And dim tradition told no tales of yore. | |
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| The works of peace succeeded those first wars, | |
| Men left the desert tents for marble walls; | 10 |
| Then rose the towers from whence they watched the stars, | |
| And the vast wonders of their kingly halls. | |
| |
| And they are perished,—those imperial towers | |
| Read not amid the midnight stars their doom; | |
| The pomp and art of all their glorious hours | 15 |
| Lie hidden in the sands that are their tomb. | |
| |
| And ye, ancestral trees, are somewhat shorn | |
| Of the first strength that marked earth’s earlier clime: | |
| But still ye stand, stately and tempest-worn, | |
| To show how nature triumphs over time. | 20 |
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| Much have ye witnessed,—but yet more remains; | |
| The mind’s great empire is but just begun; | |
| The desert beauty of your distant plains | |
| Proclaim how much has yet been left undone. | |
| |
| Will not your giant columns yet behold | 25 |
| The world’s old age, enlightened, calm, and free; | |
| More glorious than the glories known of old,— | |
| The spirit’s placid rule o’er land and sea? | |
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| All that the past has taught is not in vain,— | |
| Wisdom is garnered up from centuries gone; | 30 |
| Love, Hope, and Mind prepare a nobler reign | |
| Than ye have known,—Cedars of Lebanon! | |
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