8
Jerusalem.
But, worn by wasting famine, to decay,
Hour after hour, by slow degrees away;
No cheering hope, no glowing pulse to feel,
No daring fervor of exalted zeal;
Sunk in despair, to wish, yet fear to die,
This--this is death, in all its agony!
Yet, worn by hunger, and opprest with ill,
Thy hardy sons remain unconquered still.
Weakness, and strength alike their weapons wield,
And they, who cannot conquer, scorn to yield.
Hark, how without the deaf'ning tumult grows,
How swell the shouts of thy victorious foes!
Behold, ten thousand torches, hurl'd on high,
Gleam o'er the walls, and seem to fire the sky.
Now, Salem, now, the spreading flame devours
Thy homes, thy temple, and thy headlong towers:
Now Vengeance smiling scours th' ensanguin'd plain,
And waves her pinions o'er thy countless slain.
'Tis done; proud Salem smokes along the ground,
Her pow'r a dream, her name an empty sound.
To other realms, still ling'ring as they go,
Her children stray, in mute despairing woe;
While all the malice of relentless hate,
Beneath their foes, the captive race await;
With no kind care their inward wounds to heal,
While insult sharpens ev'ry pang they feel.
Hour after hour, by slow degrees away;
No cheering hope, no glowing pulse to feel,
No daring fervor of exalted zeal;
Sunk in despair, to wish, yet fear to die,
This--this is death, in all its agony!
Yet, worn by hunger, and opprest with ill,
Thy hardy sons remain unconquered still.
Weakness, and strength alike their weapons wield,
And they, who cannot conquer, scorn to yield.
Hark, how without the deaf'ning tumult grows,
How swell the shouts of thy victorious foes!
Behold, ten thousand torches, hurl'd on high,
Gleam o'er the walls, and seem to fire the sky.
Now, Salem, now, the spreading flame devours
Thy homes, thy temple, and thy headlong towers:
Now Vengeance smiling scours th' ensanguin'd plain,
And waves her pinions o'er thy countless slain.
'Tis done; proud Salem smokes along the ground,
Her pow'r a dream, her name an empty sound.
To other realms, still ling'ring as they go,
Her children stray, in mute despairing woe;
While all the malice of relentless hate,
Beneath their foes, the captive race await;
With no kind care their inward wounds to heal,
While insult sharpens ev'ry pang they feel.
