Fair is this land through which we ride
To that far keep, our bridal bower:
A sacred land of strength and pride,
A land of beauty and of power.
A mountain land through virtue bold,
High built, and bordering on the sun;
A prophet‐trodden land, and old;
Our own unvanquished Lebanon!
The hermit’s grot her gorges guard—
The patriarch’s tomb. There snowy dome
And granite ridges sweet with nard
O’er‐gaze and fence the patriot’s home.
No realm of river‐mouth and pelf;
No traffic realm of corn and wine;
God keeps, and lifts her, to Himself:—
His bride she is, as I am thine.
When down that Moslem deluge rolled,
The Faith, enthroned ’mid ruins, sat
Here, in her Lebanonian hold,
Firm as the ark on Ararat.
War still is hers, though loving peace;
War—not for empire, but her Lord;—
A lion land of slow increase;
For trenchant is the Moslem sword.