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!”