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, Son of Israel, scorned in every land, Outcast and wandering—come with mournful step Down to the dark vale of Jehoshaphat, And weigh the remnant of thy hoarded gold To buy thyself a grave among the bones Of patriarchs and of prophets, and of kings. It is a glorious place to take thy rest, Poor child of Abraham, 'mid those awful scenes, And sceptred monarchs, who with Faith's keen eye Piercing the midnight darkness that o'erhung Messiah's coming, gave their dying flesh Unto the worm, with such a lofty trust In the strong promise of the invisible. Here are damp gales to lull thy dreamless sleep, And murmuring recollections of that lyre Whose passing sweetness bore King David's prayer Up to the ear of Heaven, and of that strain With which the weeping prophet dirge-like sung Doomed Zion's visioned woes. Yon rifted rocks, So faintly purpled by the westering sun, Reveal the unguarded walls, the silent towers, Where in her stricken pomp, Jerusalem Sleeps like a palsied princess, from whose head The diadem hath fallen. Still half-concealed In the deep bosom of that burial-vale A fitful torrent, 'neath its time-worn arch Hurries with hoarse tale mid the echoing tombs. Thou too art near, rude-featured Olivet, So honoured of my Saviour.