BOOK X.
Oh ! for the plaintive voice of that blest Seer, Who from the height of Sion's trembling towers, In lamentations sang of Sion's fall ; Her deep distress in sorrowing strains rehearsed, And through the live long night entoned her woes, Till sobbings oft his mournful measure choked, And tears as rivers, from his eyes roll'd down ; More sad than Philomela, who the night In loud lamenting wakes, or Procne lorn, What time she most her Philomela weeps ; Or than that patriarch, who long bemoan' d The child of his old age and best beloved, Which more resemblance bears to what I deem ; Or him, who at Mahana'im sore bewail'd His disobedient son, that from the oak Hung quiv'ring in the air, till Joab's spear, Triple his heart transfix'd, and drank his blood ; Just retribution that rebellious won, Who rnock'd, dishonor'd, and defamed his sire. Sweeter to me than theirs thy mournful voice, Who sang their own, but thou thy people's griefs, Bewailing Israel's sin, and Sion's King,
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