comes

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A thin long line of houses stretched between
The lapping wavelets and the upland slopes
Whose tawny sands adorn the horizon's rim.
The picture haunts the memory, where it glows
With softened shades of colour not its own—
A picture, or a vision, or a dream !
Mirage-like seems its unsubstantial grace
When viewed afar, but when the tossing launch
Has touched the wooden steps along the quay,
The vision fades. The traveller's eyes then see
A row of massive buildings, plain and drab.
A quiet, lazy-sleeping town wherein
Large open spaces here and there are seen,
Flanked by tall buildings but no sign of life.
Fronting the sea there stand some stately piles,
From whose high tops, slow rippling in the air,
The pilgrim's eye with rising wonder sees
The National Flags of some of Europe's Powers
Their presence there betokens, he may hope,
A friendly interest and friendly care
To help the Arab once again to tread
With steadfast pace the path he trod before—
Of progress, knowledge, culture, honour, fame.
The subtle irony of this is delightful. Then
ties the journey to the Sanctuary :
We tread on hallowed ground, the Realm of Peace
Norjpsse nor rampart round it, and no tower ;
No martial watch and ward, no sentinel—
Its bounds are guarded by the breath of Faith 1
Since first the word went forth God's peace shall be
Inviolate in these precincts, still that word,
More potent far than might of armed men,
Hath bidden feud and fray and slaughter cease.
Time was when every valley, hill and plain,
So silent now, did harrowing tales repeat
Of tribal feuds and kinsmen's deadly strife,