The temples, palaces and towers
Of the old time, I may not see;
Nor 'neath my reverend tread, thy flowers
Bend meekly down, Gethsemane!

By Jordan's wave I may not stand,
Nor climb the hills of Galilee;
Nor break, with my poor, sinful hand,
The emblems of apostacy.

Nor pitch my tent 'neath Salem's sky,
As faith's impassioned fervor bids;
Nor hear the wild bird's startled cry,
From Egypt's awful pyramids.

I have not stood, and may not stand,
Where Hermon's dews the blossoms feed;
Nor where the flint-sparks light the sand,
Beneath the Arab lancer's steed.

Woe for the dark thread in my lot,
That still hath kept my feet away
From pressing toward the hallowed spot,
Where Mary and the young child lay.

But the unhooded soul may track
Even as it will, the dark or light,
From noontide's sunny splendors, back
To the dead grandeur of old night.

And even I, by visions led,
The Arctic wastes of snow may stem;
The Tartars' black tents view, or tread
Thy gardens, oh Jerusalem!

O'er Judah's hills may travel slow,
Or ponder Kedron's brook beside,
Or pluck the reeds that overgrow
The tomb which held the Crucified.

And does not He, who planned the bliss
Above us, hear the praise that springs
From every dust-pent chrysalis,
That feels the stirring of its wings?