 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
102
THE RUINS OF HEROD'S PALACE.
The traveller sat upon a stone,
A broken column's pride,
And o'er his head a fig-tree waved
Its grateful umbrage wide,
While round him fruitful valleys smiled,
And crystal streams ran by,
And the bold mountain's forehead hoar
Rose up 'tween earth and sky.
A broken column's pride,
And o'er his head a fig-tree waved
Its grateful umbrage wide,
While round him fruitful valleys smiled,
And crystal streams ran by,
And the bold mountain's forehead hoar
Rose up 'tween earth and sky.
But on a ruin'd pile he gazed,
Beneath whose mouldering gloom
The roving fox a shelter found,
And noisome bats a tomb.
“Ho, Arab!” for a ploughman wrought
The grassy sward among,
With marble fragments richly strew'd,
And terraced olives hung,
Beneath whose mouldering gloom
The roving fox a shelter found,
And noisome bats a tomb.
“Ho, Arab!” for a ploughman wrought
The grassy sward among,
With marble fragments richly strew'd,
And terraced olives hung,
“Say, canst thou tell what ancient dome
In darkness here declines,
And strangely lifts its spectral form
Among the matted vines?”
He stay'd his simple plough, that traced
Its crooked furrow nigh,
And, while his oxen cropp'd the turf,
Look'd up with vacant eye.
In darkness here declines,
And strangely lifts its spectral form
Among the matted vines?”
He stay'd his simple plough, that traced
Its crooked furrow nigh,
And, while his oxen cropp'd the turf,
Look'd up with vacant eye.
103
“It was some satrap's palace, sure,
In old time, far away,
Or else of some great Christian prince,
I've heard my father say,”
“Arab! it was King Herod's dome;
'Twas there he feasted, free,
His captains, and the chief estates,
And lords of Galilee;
In old time, far away,
Or else of some great Christian prince,
I've heard my father say,”
“Arab! it was King Herod's dome;
'Twas there he feasted, free,
His captains, and the chief estates,
And lords of Galilee;
“'Twas there the impious dancer's heel
Lured his rash soul astray.”
But, ere the earnest tale was told,
The ploughman turn'd away.
O ruthless king! thy vaunted pomp
And power avail thee not,
Who here, beside thy palace-gates,
Art by the serf forgot:
Lured his rash soul astray.”
But, ere the earnest tale was told,
The ploughman turn'd away.
O ruthless king! thy vaunted pomp
And power avail thee not,
Who here, beside thy palace-gates,
Art by the serf forgot:
Yet he whose blood in prison-cell
By thy decree was spilt,
Whose head, upon the charger brought,
Appeased revengeful guilt,
His name, amid a deathless page,
Gleams forth with living ray,
While all thy royalty and pride
Are swept like foam away.
By thy decree was spilt,
Whose head, upon the charger brought,
Appeased revengeful guilt,
His name, amid a deathless page,
Gleams forth with living ray,
While all thy royalty and pride
Are swept like foam away.
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