REFT of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn,
Mourn, widow'd Queen, forgotten Sion, mourn!
Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne,
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone;
While suns unblest their angry lustre fling,
And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring ?-
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy view'd?
Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued ?
No martial myriads muster in thy gate;
No suppliant nations in thy Temple wait;
No prophet bards, thy glittering courts among,
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of
song:
But lawless force, and meagre want are there,
And the quick-darting eye of restless fear,
While cold oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid,
Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade.
Ye guardian saints! ye warrior sons of Heaven,
To whose high care Judæa's state was given !
O wont of old your nightly watch to keep,
A host of gods, on Sion's towery steep!
If e'er your secret footsteps linger still
By Siloa's fount, or Tabor's echoing hill;