« PředchozíPokračovat »
SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS!
Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star !
WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST
IT TO BE.
WERE my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,
3. I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; In his hand is my heart and my hope-and in thine The land and the life which for him I resign.
HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.
1. Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; Revenge is lost in agony,
And wild remorse to rage succeeding. Oh, Mariamne! where art thou ?
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading: Ah, couldst thou—thou wouldst pardon now, Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.
2. And is she dead ?_and did they dare
Obey my phrensy's jealous raving ? My wrath but doom'd my own despair :
The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving. But thou art cold, my murder'd love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
She sunk, with her my joys entombing; I swept that flower from Judah’s stem
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom's desolation dooming ; And I have earn'd those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming !
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF
JERUSALEM BY TITUS.
1. FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome I beheld thee, Oh Sion! when render'd to Rome: 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
2. I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain.
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane
BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN
WE sate down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
Made Salem's high places his prey ;
Were scatter'd all weeping away.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which roll'd on in freedom below, They demanded the song ; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know ! May this right hand be wither'd for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free;
But left me that token of thee :.
With the voice of the spoiler by me!