’Twas sunset in Jerusalem; the light
Still lingered on the city’s walls, and crowned
Mount Olivet with splendor, while below,
Among the trees of dark Gethsemane
And on the Kedron gloomy shadows lay,
As if but waiting for the death of day
To rise and mantle Zion in a shroud. 
To one who watched it in that golden light,
Across the gulf between the sunlit hills,
The city seemed transfigured, lifted high
Above the gloom and misery of earth,—­
A fit abode for Israel’s ancient kings. 
The broad plateau, where Abram once had knelt,
And where the hallowed Temple of the Jews
Had glittered gorgeous with its gems and gold,
Now bore, ’tis true, the stately Moslem mosque,
But bore it as a captive bears his chains,
Whose spirit is not crushed, but borne aloft
By thrilling memories of a noble past. 
The rays of dying day yet half illumed
A dreary spot outside the city walls
Where sat, apart, an old man and his child.

Beside them rose the cherished blocks of stone
Which once had graced the Temple’s sacred court;
It was the “Day of Wailing”, and the Jews,—­
A poor scant remnant of their outcast race—­,
Had gathered there, as is their weekly wont,
To read of all the glories they have lost,
And count their endless list of shattered hopes. 
Some moaned at thought of their contrasted lot,
Some plucked their beards in anguish and despair,
Some turned their tear-stained faces to the wall,
And mutely kissed the precious blocks, as if
The historic stones held sentient sympathy. 
Their lamentations ended, all had gone
To their poor dwellings, sadly, one by one,
Save these two lingering mourners, who still sat
With downcast eyes and slowly-dropping tears. 
At length the old man raised his head, and spoke;—­

“Our Fathers’ God! whose all-protecting hand
Led us, Thy people, to this chosen land,
Through the cleft waters of a distant sea,
That we might rear a temple here to Thee;
Thou, who on Zion hadst Thy favorite shrine,
And in Thy majesty and power divine
Wast daily by our suppliant race adored
As sovereign Jehovah, peerless Lord;
Why hast Thou cast us off to toil and die
In foreign countries’ harsh captivity? 
Our race is scattered now the wide world o’er;
Our wailings rise to Thee from every shore;
Baited or banished by the Christian Powers,
Cursed by the Moslem mid our ruined towers,
Like pariah dogs, an execrated race,
We crouch to-day within our ‘Wailing Place’,
Begging, and paying dearly for, the right
To bathe with tears this consecrated site. 
How long, O Israel’s God, shall this endure? 
Are not Thy promises to Jacob sure? 
Oh, speed the day when once again Thy name
Shall here be worshipped, and the sacred flame
Of pure, atoning offerings shall rise,
And smoke ascend from daily sacrifice!”