DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.11448#0445
chap. xiv.]
THE LEBANON
135
CHAPTER XIV.
the lebanon.
On to the Mountain ! To the Mountain, Druses !
R. Browning.
Beautiful Beyrout! It is not only now, when seen through
the Claude Lorraine glass of Memory, that I yield to thee the palm
over all the cities of the earth. Exacting, indeed, must the spirit
be that does not rest contented with thy beauty, even while, lover-
like, gazing on thee !
It is not only the magnificent scenery—the mountain, with its
glens, like velvet folds, enclosing cascades like silver threads—■
the snowy peaks, the golden shore: nor the rich gardens that lie
around the towered walls ; the airy villages, with their silkworm
sheds ; the purple sea, and the rose-coloured sky—that invest the
old Berytus with such a glory. But the kindling associations
that start up at every view ; the old Phoenician fame; the
Greek, the Roman, the Christian, the Crusader's memory; every
wave that foams along the shore once heaved beneath the ancient
Argosies • every breeze that murmurs through the myrtle whis-
pers of the banners that it once spread out over conquering ar-
mies, and the rich tresses that it toyed with in the Paphian
bowers.
For Cyprus is almost in sight; yon distant promontory shelters
Tripoli; those waters have weltered among the prostrate towers
of Tyre and Sidon.
You command in an hour every spot within your view. You
clap your hands, and an eager Arabian champs his bit: you
loose the rein, and, swift as thought, you are careering through
the Pine Forest, or scaling the mountain's side, or traversing
the borderland of Palestine: but with that we have done for ever,
THE LEBANON
135
CHAPTER XIV.
the lebanon.
On to the Mountain ! To the Mountain, Druses !
R. Browning.
Beautiful Beyrout! It is not only now, when seen through
the Claude Lorraine glass of Memory, that I yield to thee the palm
over all the cities of the earth. Exacting, indeed, must the spirit
be that does not rest contented with thy beauty, even while, lover-
like, gazing on thee !
It is not only the magnificent scenery—the mountain, with its
glens, like velvet folds, enclosing cascades like silver threads—■
the snowy peaks, the golden shore: nor the rich gardens that lie
around the towered walls ; the airy villages, with their silkworm
sheds ; the purple sea, and the rose-coloured sky—that invest the
old Berytus with such a glory. But the kindling associations
that start up at every view ; the old Phoenician fame; the
Greek, the Roman, the Christian, the Crusader's memory; every
wave that foams along the shore once heaved beneath the ancient
Argosies • every breeze that murmurs through the myrtle whis-
pers of the banners that it once spread out over conquering ar-
mies, and the rich tresses that it toyed with in the Paphian
bowers.
For Cyprus is almost in sight; yon distant promontory shelters
Tripoli; those waters have weltered among the prostrate towers
of Tyre and Sidon.
You command in an hour every spot within your view. You
clap your hands, and an eager Arabian champs his bit: you
loose the rein, and, swift as thought, you are careering through
the Pine Forest, or scaling the mountain's side, or traversing
the borderland of Palestine: but with that we have done for ever,