XXV.

When thou wert born the murmuring world

Boiled on, nor dreamed of things to be,

From joy to sorrow madly whirled;—

Despair disguised in revelry.

A princess thou of David's line;

The mother of the Prince of Peace;

That hour no royal pomps were thine:

The earth alone her boon increase.

Before thee poured. September rolled

Down all the vine-clad Syrian slopes

Her breadths of purple and of gold;

And birds sang loud from olive tops.

Perhaps old foes, they knew not why,

Relented. From a fount long sealed

Tears rose, perhaps, to Pity's eye:

Love-harvests crowned the barren field.

The respirations of the year.

At least, grew soft. O'er valleys wide

Pine-roughened crags again shone clear;

And the great Temple, far descried,

To watchers, watching long in vain,

To patriots grey, in bondage nursed,

Flashed back their hope — “The Second Fane

In glory shall surpass the First!”