The day was far gone as we neared the home of the Patriarchs. The sun was fast sinking into the blue waters of the Mediterranean; the Hebron Hills were casting their lengthening shadows over the vineyards of Eshcol, and the wild flowers, blooming along the path, were closing their tiny petals “beneath the kisses of night.” It was such an hour and such a scene as the plaintive bard has embalmed in immortal verse:
“The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
“Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.”[342]
