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!"