WHAT went ye out to see | |
| O’er the rude sandy lea, | |
| Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm, | |
| Or where Gennesaret’s wave | |
| Delights the flowers to lave, | 5 |
| That o’er her western slope breathe airs of balm. | |
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| All through the summer night, | |
| Those blossoms red and bright | |
| Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze, | |
| Like hermits watching still | 10 |
| Around the sacred hill, | |
| Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees. | |
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| A Paschal moon above | |
| Seems like a saint to rove, | |
| Left shining in the world with Christ alone; | 15 |
| Below, the lake’s still face | |
| Sleeps sweetly in th’ embrace | |
| Of mountains terrac’d high with mossy stone. | |
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| Here may we sit, and dream | |
| Over the heavenly theme, | 20 |
| Till to our soul the former days return; | |
| Till on the grassy bed, | |
| Where thousands once He fed, | |
| The world’s incarnate Maker we discern. | |
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| O cross no more the main, | 25 |
| Wandering so wild and vain, | |
| To count the reeds that tremble in the wind, | |
| On listless dalliance bound, | |
| Like children gazing round, | |
| Who on God’s works no seal of Godhead find. | 30 |
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| Bask not in courtly bower, | |
| Or sun-bright hall of power, | |
| Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land— | |
| From robes of Tyrian dye | |
| Turn with undazzled eye | 35 |
| To Bethlehem’s glade, or Carmel’s haunted strand. | |
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| Or choose thee out a cell | |
| In Kedron’s storied dell, | |
| Beside the springs of Love, that never die; | |
| Among the olives kneel | 40 |
| The chill night-blast to feel, | |
| And watch the Moon that saw thy Master’s agony. | |
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| Then rise at dawn of day, | |
| And wind thy thoughtful way, | |
| Where rested once the Temple’s stately shade, | 45 |
| With due feet tracing round | |
| The city’s northern bound, | |
| To th’ other holy garden, where the Lord was laid. | |
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| Who thus alternate see | |
| His death and victory, | 50 |
| Rising and falling as on angel wings, | |
| They, while they seem to roam, | |
| Draw daily nearer home, | |
| Their heart untravell’d still adores the King of kings. | |
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| Or, if at home they stay, | 55 |
| Yet are they, day by day, | |
| In spirit journeying through the glorious land, | |
| Not for light Fancy’s reed, | |
| Nor Honour’s purple meed, | |
| Nor gifted Prophet’s lore, nor Science’ wondrous wand. | 60 |
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| But more than Prophet, more | |
| Than Angels can adore | |
| With face unveiled, is He they go to seek; | |
| Blessèd be God, Whose grace | |
| Shows Him in every place | 65 |
| To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek. | |
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