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Palestine-Essay.

VOL. 1

the temple!" Then, in a lower tone, he| For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, cried, "Lord now lettest thou thy servant de- And the holy Shechina is dark where it shone, part in peace, according to thy word; for mine|| But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode eyes have seen thy salvation." He bowed of humanity clothed in the brightness of God? his head and his undaunted spirit passed away. Where my spirit but turned from the outward and dim, H. It could gaze, even now, on the presence of him. Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when In love and in meekness he moved among men ; And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea,

PALESTINE.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

Blest land of Judea thrice hallowed of song,
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;
In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee!
With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God
Blue sea of the hills! in my spirit I hear
Thy waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear!
Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,
And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown.
Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters, oh dark Galilee !

Hark, a sound in the vallies! where swollen and strong
Thy river, oh Kishon, is sweeping along;
Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain,
And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.
There, down from his mountains stern Zebulon came,
And Naphthali's stag, with his eye-balls of flame,
And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on,
For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son !

There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang,
To the song which the beautiful Prophetess sang
When the Princes of Isaachar stood by her side,
And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.
Lo! Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen,

In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me!
And what if my feet may not tread where he stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,
Nor my eyes see the cross which he bowed him to bear,
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer;
Yet, Loved of the Father, thy spirit is near,
To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of thy love is the same even now,
As at Bethany's tomb, or an Olivet's brow.
Oh, the outward hath gone! but in glory and power,
The SPIRIT Surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same.

To the Editor of the Ladies' Garland.

The following is one of a series of Essays written for the "Philadelphia Literary Association," an institution established in the year 1813, and which is still in existence; having numbered amongst its members many individuals who now hold conspicuous sta tious in society.

Oh there are looks, and tones that dart

An instant sunshine to the heart.-LALLA ROOKH.

There are few persons of susceptiblity, who have not observed the powerful effect which is sometimes produced upon the heart; by a word, a look, an attitude, under peculiar relations of thought or feeling. There are moments when the soul, melted by the work

With the mountains around and the valleys between; ing of some master spell, receives impres

There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The song of the angels rose sweet on the air.
And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;
But where are the sisters who hastened to greet
The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet?

I tread where the TWELVE in their wayfaring trod;
I stand where they stood with the CHOSEN OF GOD!
Where His blessing was heard, and His lessons were
taught,

Where the blind were restored, and the healing was

wrought.

Oh, here with his flock the sad Wanderer came,
These hills he toiled over in grief are the same-
The founts where he drank by the wayside still flow,
And the same airs are blowing which breathed on his

brow.

And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet,'

sions, which in its cold, and guarded hour, would have glanced off, harmless and unheeded. Our feelings are the slaves of circumstance, and ofttimes operate, as if reason exercised over them no acknowledged jurisdic

tion.

Things which we are prone to consider as too insignificant for notice, become, when invested by some new association, possessed of the most brilliant and attractive beauties:and objects over which our eyes have wandered a thousand times regardlessly, will suddenly arrest them as if by the power of fascination.

Who has not felt the extatic power of a strain of music, wafted slowly over the moonlight waters, when all upon earth was still, and all in heaven cloudless! and not the murmur of wind, or wave, or voice, broke in

But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet; upon the dream of melody! Yet perhaps that

1

No. 12

I Love Thee more and more.

191

strain had been heard by day and by night, in || beating of wings against the bars of their solitude and in society, without ever drawing prison house. forth from the soul one responsive echo. But now it is in harmony with all around, and breathes upon the spirit with a bland and resistless enchantment.

It is in the genial freedom of boundless forests, fervid skies, and freshening breezes, that these troubadors of nature pour forth their unpremeditated harmonies, and make their pleasures vocal. Would you see the wonders of nature, or the ruins of art, seek them not in the palaces and pleasure grounds of the wealthy and the great. They may make artificial hills, and may break each streamlet with a cascade, and crown each summit with a ruin. But what does the foam and fury of the cataract, in the quiet glade and in the bosom of tranquility; and why does the ruin crumble, when all around is new, and prosperous, and improving? Would you see nature in her might and majesty? Seek

Who has not felt the witchery of a soft, sweet eye, beaming on him but one short and blessed minute, yet revealing in that one glance a heaven of anticipated bliss, a host of pure and innocent hopes, of timid, yet confiding tendernesses. Who has not gazed upon forms which seemed the realized creation of his summer dreams, which shone before him once, and then vanished away forever! seeming as if new lighted from some purer sphere, and breathing the bloom and freshness of another being. Yet perhaps eyes as bright, and shapes as lovely are continually surround-her upon her Alpine throne. Would you see ing him, but he gazes upon them coldly, for they come not before him sparkling with the fairy splendors of a new born enthusiasm.

Oh! there is a power beyond the expression of speech, in the last glance of those we love; when the light is just fading from their eyes, and the spirit looks forth as it is about to take wing for another world.

There is an energy in the last tone of parental admonition, when the tongue falters, and the lip quivers in its mortal agony, which fastens upon and clings forever to the memory, and there is a sadness in the farewell of expiring friendship, which seems not the word but the sigh of departing life, resting like a cloud upon us and casting even in the sunshine of hope and happiness its solemn gloom upon our spirits. Yet faint and powerless would have been the glance and the tone, unconnected with the awful ideas, of death and eternity. It is this relation which gives efficacy to all things and makes a consistency of feeling, by the connection of time and place, and incident. There is an influence in local circumstance, a homeness, a truth, and a nature, in scenes and situations, which bear about them an inappreciable power. Never does the savage appear in his rude and native majesty, save when wandering in his own wild woods, or hid in his sylvan solitude; and never does the "Rans des vache" of the Swiss sound with such an eloquent sweetness as when heard amid the rocks and mountains of his own Hilvetia. No, there is an order and harmony in nature which should not be impaired; by which, when properly attuned, one cord vibrates to another, until all creation join in the glorious diapason. Would you hear the blithe and beautiful melody of the feathered minstrel, seek it not amid the hum of the aviary, or the solitude of the bird-cage. There the violation of this great principle, makes perpetual discord; for what sounds are more at variance with the song of liberty, than the

art in ruins? Seek him amid kindred desolation. It is amongst savage hills, and cleft rocks, and gloomy forests, we are to trace the maniac path of the cataract, and hear its long howl through the fearful solitude.

It is from a bleak promontory that breasts the fury of the wide, wild ocean, surrounded by sterility, and peril and decay, beneath the terrors of a threatening sky, we should seek the castellated ruin. For these are congenial associations, and it is only under their influence, that the deep and mysterious power of such scenes are impressed upon the spirit.

The following verses, like the lines of Burns' "Lap-
raik," appear to be addressed to "some kind wife "
I LOVE THEE MORE AND MORE.
Faithful in fortune's darkest hour,

Till then our loves were dreams of youth!
'Twas then I felt affection's power,
'Twas then I proved thy bosom's truth.
Yes, when I see the gushing tear
Bedim the eye that thrill'd before,
I feel that thou indeed art dear,
And love thee-love thee more and more.
Waked from a soft Elysian trance
To life's severe reality,

I find in thy more pensive glance

A deeper, sweeter sympathy.
Our griefs as from one fountain spring,
Now that our mutual joys are o'er-
Yes, not a sorrow time may bring,
But I shall love thee more and more.

Thus far together have we come―

Nor be the hope, the prayer supprest,
That we may reach our long last home
Together, and united rest.

But should my fate be first to die,

While death stands beck'ning at the door, I'll turn to thee, and faintly sigh,

I love thee-love thee more and more.

remind the scriptural reader of such passages as the following: "And Judah and Israel dwelt safely, every man under his fig tree, from Dan to Beersheba." "They shall sit, every man under his vine, and under his fig tree, and none shall make them afraid." See also Zech. iii. 10, and John i. 48.

193

distinguished in honor of a Bramin, of high reputation, by the name of Cubbeer Buv. High floods have destroyed many of its incurved stems, yet those remaining, measure two thousand feet in circumference; the number of its larger trunks, each exceeding the bulk of our noblest oaks, amount to three hundred and fifty, while that of its smaller, is more than three thousand; so that seven thousand persons may find ample room to repose under its enormous shade; and may, at the same time, be richly supplied from the vast abundance of fruit which it yields. Mr. Southey gives a beautiful and accurate description of one of these sacred trees, in his "Curse of Kehma," and concludes it thus:

The double, and in some climates, the treble crop of the fig tree, is one of the most curious circumstances belonging to its natural history, and further illustrates the value attached to it in the east. The first ripe figs come to maturity about the latter end of June, though some few may ripen before the full season. These few are probably of inferior value, for the Prophet says, “I found Israel like grapes in the wilderness; I saw your fathers as the first ripe on the fig tree at her first time." There are several varieties of the fig tree described by botanists; of these we have given a drawing of the Ficus Indicus, or Banian tree of the east. This majestic tree, the wonder of the vege- A pious heart's first impulse would be prayer.

table world, claims our attention not so
much as a fruit tree, as from its being a sa-
cred tree with the Hindoos, from its vast
size, and from the singularity of its growth.
The fruit is not larger than a hasel nut, but
the lateral branches send down shoots which
take root, till in the course of time, a single
tree extends itself to a considerable grove.
Among the ancients, Strato mentions that
after the branches have extended about
twelve feet horizontally, they shoot down
in the direction of the earth, and there root
themselves; and when they have attained
maturity, they propagate onward, in the
same manner, till the whole becomes like a
tent, supported by many columns. The
tree is also noticed by Pliny; and Milton
has rendered the description of the naturalist
of Veronæ, almost literally in the following
lines:-

Branching so broad along that in the ground
The bending twigs take root; and daughters grow
About the mother tree; a pillared shade,
High overarched, with echoing walks between.
There oft the Indian herdsman shunning heat,
Sheltering cool; and tends his pasturing herds
At loop holes cut through thickest shade!"

Some specimens of the Indian fig tree are mentioned as being of immense magnitude. One near Mangee, in Bengal, spread over a diameter of 370 feet; the entire circumference of the shadow at noon was 1116 feet,! and it required 920 feet to surround the stems by which the tree was supported. Another covered an area of 1700 square yards; and many of nearly equal dimensions are found in India, and Cochin China. But the largest of which we have ever heard, is on an island in the river Nerbedda, and is

"Nor weeds, nor briars deformed the natural floor

And through the leafy cope which bowered it o'er,

Came gleams of chequered light;
So like a temple did it seem, that there

For the Ladies' Garland.
ELEGY

Pause, stranger! for beneath this mound,
Pale sorrow's hapless child is laid!
Few were the joys in life he found,

That did not quickly fade.

His heart was cast in feeling's mould,
And misery claim'd his pitying tear,
A tribute he could not withhold,
A tribute 'twas, sincere!

Small was his store of worldly gain,
But what he had he freely gave,
To soothe a brother sufferer's pain;
From want, the wretch to save.

He had his faults but few they were!
His ardent spirit sometimes err'd,
But e'en tho' caught in folly's snare,
Her ways he ne'er preferr❜d.—

But turn'd to virtue's path again,

As if by secret instinct mov'd,
And bade adieu to folly's train,

Whose course he never lov'd.

A friend he was of soul sincere,

He ne'er betray'd a friendly trust,
Come stranger then let fall a tear
Upon his sacred dust.

O come! approach his humble grave,

Beneath this mournful yew-tree's shade, Whose branches long shall o'er him wave, To tell-here sorrow's child is laid.

PHILANDER.