Night o’er lone Samaria! thy dark hill’s crest
Fades proudly into gloom. Still linger there
Thy maidens at “The Well” His feet have prest;
Still floats their broken music on the air
At eve, blent with the wave’s low murmured prayer.
Thy moon rides slowly o’er thy hills, oh Galilee!
Proud Queen of Heaven! bound to her far-off throne
Behind the Syrian mountains—and thy sea,
Oh lone Tiberias! where of late she shone,
Mirrors the stars upon thy bosom—stars of voiceless Night.