Nicholas Michell

Awake! behold! within the mountain zone
That, circling, girds her stern and desert throne,
Immortal Salem sits, famed Zion's queen,
Stretching her hands, and weeping o'er the scene.
Immortal? — yes, though ills have laid her low,
Patient in ruin, deathless in her woe! —
And do we gaze, our weary wanderings past,
On Sheba's envy, David's pride at last?
The city prophets blessed, and kings revered,
The saintly loved, and barbarous nations feared?
What lips have kissed these stones! what holy sighs,
And burning prayers, have mounted to those skies.

. . .

With every scene we see is linked a spell,
And every rock we climb a tale can tell.
The ground is holy — sainted memories rise —
Cities decay, but nought of spirit dies.
Sure shapes aerial walk yon desert vale,
Speak from the cave, or murmur on the gale;
We seem to hear Siloam's rocks among
David's sweet lyre, Isaiah's hallowed song;
And glowing fancy hails that form divine,
Where to the winds yon olive boughs repine —
The form of Him, who came to teach and save,
Unlock heaven's gates, and triumph o'er the grave.