“Blue Sea of the hills! in my sprit I hear
Thy waters. Gennesaret, chime on my ear;
Where the Lowly and Great with the people sat down,
And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown.

“Beyond are Bethsaida’s mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene,
And I pause on the goat crags Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters. O dark Galilee!”

The view on every hand is magnificent. The course of the Jordan for a long distance can be traced, and still further east on a boundless perspective of hills and valleys stretches over ancient Gilead and Bastian.

Beautiful Tabor! Gladly would I have lingered long amidst visions so attractive, so grand and sublime— amidst surrounding objects in themselves so sacred and enchanting, and suggestive of reflections that throng the mind and almost etherealize the soul. In good season the next evening we were leaving our camping ground, and passing around the western and northern base of Mount Tabor, on our way to the Sea of Galilee. It is the last day of March, and never could a morning be more beautiful or charming, the sun shines in a cloudless sky and drinks the pearly dewdrops from leaf and blossom. The woody slope of Tabor, in its fresh fall foliage, is grateful to the eye. As we move on in the delightful valley, the form of the hills and small oak trees, and other shrubbery that cover them so different from the general aspect of Palestine, get so like certain landscapes at home, recalling the scenes of childhood, that for a moment I seem to be in New England on a June morning. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two or three of us anxious or an early sight of the Sea of Galilee, sped on in advance, and as we came to the edge of the high bank, the beautiful and glorious vision is before us. With tearful gratitude we look down upon the sweet, tranquil, and sacred Lake, and then uncover our