Branch of palm from Palestine,
Tell me of thy native place:
What fair vale, what steep incline,
First thy stately growth did grace?

Has the sun at dawn caressed thee,
That on Jordan's waters shone,
Have the rough night-winds distressed thee
As they swept o'er Lebanon?

And while Solym's sons, brought low,
Plaited thee for humble wages,
Was it prayer they chanted slow,
Or some song of ancient ages?

As in childhood's first awaking
Does thy parent-tree still stand,
With its full-leaved branches making
Shadows on the burning sand?

Or when thou from it wert riven,
Did it straightway droop and die,
Till the desert dust was driven
On its yellowing leaves to die?

Say, what pilgrim's pious hand
Cherished thee in hours of pain,
When he to this northern land
Brought thee, fed with tears like rain?