ins of music and songs ofpraise resounded are now mouldering fast. The harp is broke, the song is fled,The voice is hushed, the bard is dead.* We wended our way through the dusty roads,with a fierce sun pouring his rays upon us,and no refreshing breeze to cool our scorchedfaces. By and by the… … below us; and here and there clusters of figand olive-trees, and dark, towering cypresses.A few paces more we have turned the cor-ner of the road, and the village of Bethlehem,with its high walls and embattlements, standingupon the summit of a terrace-cultivated hill,bursts upon us. Rouhh! Yallah!…
Women · American literature · Costume · Arts
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