The sun that saw the Exile tread again
His native land, sent down at eve a light
To cheer his bed of death, but not of pain-
The Exile was at home, asleep, ere night.
And gentle tones of blessing he had heard—

Ere life went forth from worn and wearied clayTelling of FAITH—that long-forgotten word—

Teaching his heart and lips once more to pray!

Oh! ye who dream of fruitful hills and vales
Where fabled milk and fabled honey flow,
And hear the wicked or the idle tales

Of men who lead the way to misery-know
The meaning of the humble song I sing-

The moral of my mournful tale: 'Tis said

In the prophetic words of Israel's king,—
DWELL IN THE LAND, AND THERE THOU SHALT

BE FED!

THE European travellers who journey to the Holy City from the sea-coast, over the rich plain of Ramle, and through the mountainous defiles of Judah, find difficulty in suppressing the disappointment they experience at the first sight of Jerusalem. Reaching the summit of a rugged mountain, you observe, in the plain immediately before you, a small walled town, its edifices entirely concealed by the fortification, which rises from a stony soil in the midst of dark and savage hills.

But enter Palestine from Arabia, and journey from the Dead Sea through the range of mountains terminated by the Mount of Olives, and you can still gaze from that celebrated eminence upon a prospect which may recal, with some play of the imagination, the lost city of David.

F

Jerusalem is built upon the sloping, but hilly brow of a mountain inferior in elevation to Olivet. From this last position, therefore, you can command the whole prospect of the city. It appears before you, in form, an irregular square, between two and three miles in circumference, and is entirely surrounded by a turreted wall, of the time of the crusaders, about fifty feet in height, flanked by square towers, and also protected by high loopholes for archery. The eastern side of the city, which is the one opposite Olivet, crests a deep, narrow, and precipitous ravine, forming, with the Mount of Olives, the gloomy vale of Jehosaphat; the southern wall intersects the summit of Mount Sion; the northern runs over the plain; the extreme distance is formed by some barren summits rising over the turrets of the western wall.

The masses of dwellings, built of bright stone, with domed or terraced roofs, the gates, the castle, the convents of the Latin, Armenian, and Greek Christians, the two cupolas of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the mosques and minarets, but, above all, the splendid pile built upon the supposed site of the temple, and which, with its gardens, and arcades, and courts, and fountains, may fairly be described as the most imposing of Moslemin fanes: all these form a fine picture, and, contrasting with the stony desolation of the surrounding country, would afford a fit subject for the magical pencil of our Martin.

I entered Jerusalem by the gate of Bethlehem. Accustomed to oriental cities, I was not struck by that character of gloom and dreariness which call forth the lamentations of the lively Gauls, who, with no previous experience of the East, so often sail from Marseilles to land at Jaffa or Alexandria. The houses are, indeed, without chimneys or windows, but they are clean and massy; the tall black obelisk-form of an occasional cypress sometimes breaks the monotony of their appearance; sometimes a palm-tree, elegant and lone, rises from a graceful roof. The streets are, indeed, hilly, but their narrowness affords both shade and coolness.

I entered Jerusalem by the gate of Bethlehem, and claimed hospitality from the famous convent of Terra Santa. It was some time before the gloomy portal, which, by the bye, was cased with iron, cautiously opened, and I found myself in the galleried court of a building of vast size, but so irregular in design that I never could clearly comprehend it. A janissary attached to the convent sat in the court smoking; some Franciscans, in their brown robes girt by a white knotted cord, lounged over the balustrade of the gallery, watching our entrance; the armed pilgrims dismounting,― the Arab grooms,- the horses, pawing the cool court, and the patient camels, calmly crouching to be unloaded, completed the picture.

I was led through many passages, ascended a staircase, proceeded through a range of galleries, passed through a church, and was finally ushered into the presence of the procurator-general, a mild and aged man, dignified, and not deficient in intelligence. The attendant friar knelt and kissed the procurator's hand as he introduced me. I would have followed his example, but the reverend superior prevented me with a deprecating smile. I presented him my letter of introduction; and, while he read it, his attendant opened a closet, and, producing a bottle and glass, offered me a cordial.

"The city is full of pilgrims," observed the procurator, “awaiting the ensuing festival of Easter. I cannot say that we are much troubled with them. Alas! the Latins have quite renounced the holy pilgrimage. You heretics," he added with a smile, "are the only Franks who visit us. But our ceremonies, which are now frequent and rigid, will, I fear, trouble you, if you become an inmate of the convent. We have a house at hand, which is at your service; and there you will be quite free. Bread, and wine, and fish shall be regularly supplied to you from the convent and, if we do not offer you meat, do not report us in England as inhospitable, but remember that it is Lent."

I thanked the courteous procurator; and, as it was near sunset, I assented to his proposal of walking on the terraces of the convent. Their extent impressed