THE HEBREW'S LAMENT.

Thou art the land of all my dreams,—

Thy wanderer's heart is thine,

And oft he lingers by thy streams,

O holy Palestine!

A stranger in a stranger's land

O'er hill and vale I roam;

But hope forever points her hand

Towards my father's home.

They tell me that on Zion's hill

The Cross and Crescent shine:

But oh, my heart is with thee still,

Beloved Palestine.

I know that Israel's weary race

Are scorned on every shore,

And scarcely find a dwelling-place

Where they were lords before.

Yet,‘ mid the darkness and the gloom,

A light begins to break;

O Israel, from the dreary tomb

Thy buried hopes awake,—

And lips that raise the fervent prayer,

“How long, O Lord, how long?”

Shall change the wailings of despair

To the triumphant song.

And I may live to see the hour —

The hour that must be near,—

When in his royalty and power

Our Shiloh will appear.

Till then my prayers will rise for thee,

Till then my heart be thine,

O land beyond the stormy sea,

O holy Palestine.