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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420714" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Holy Land. From Lamartine</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have not felt, o'er seas of sand,<br>The rocking of the desert bark;<br>Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand,<br>By Hebron's palm-trees cool and dark;<br>Nor pitched my tent at even-fall,<br>On dust where Job of old has lain,<br>Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall,<br>The dream of Jacob o'er again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One vast world-page remains unread;<br>How shine the stars in Chaldea's sky,<br>How sounds the reverent pilgrim's tread,<br>How beats the heart with God so nigh<br>How round gray arch and column lone<br>The spirit of the old time broods,<br>And sighs in all the winds that moan<br>Along the sandy solitudes!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In thy tall cedars, Lebanon,<br>I have not heard the nations' cries,<br>Nor seen thy eagles stooping down<br>Where buried Tyre in ruin lies.<br>The Christian's prayer I have not said<br>In Tadmor's temples of decay,<br>Nor startled, with my dreary tread,<br>The waste where Memnon's empire lay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide,<br>O Jordan! heard the low lament,<br>Like that sad wail along thy side<br>Which Israel's mournful prophet sent!<br>Nor thrilled within that grotto lone<br>Where, deep in night, the Bard of Kings<br>Felt hands of fire direct his own,<br>And sweep for God the conscious strings.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have not climbed to Olivet,<br>Nor laid me where my Saviour lay,<br>And left His trace of tears as yet<br>By angel eyes unwept away;<br>Nor watched, at midnight's solemn time,<br>The garden where His prayer and groan,<br>Wrung by His sorrow and our crime,<br>Rose to One listening ear alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have not kissed the rock-hewn grot<br>Where in His mother's arms He lay,<br>Nor knelt upon the sacred spot<br>Where last His footsteps pressed the clay;<br>Nor looked on that sad mountain head,<br>Nor smote my sinful breast, where wide<br>His arms to fold the world He spread,<br>And bowed His head to bless-and died!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420714" data-title="The Holy Land. From Lamartine de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="I have not felt, o'er seas of sand,
The rocking of the desert bark;
Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand,
By Hebron's palm-trees cool and dark;
Nor pitched my tent at even-fall,
On dust where Job of old has lain,
Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall..."></div>
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