Judea

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
  The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
  Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. --
If in this heart a hope be dear,
  That sound shall charm it forth again --
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
  'Twill flow -- and cease to burn my brain --

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
  Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee -- Minstrel! I must weep,
  Or else this heavy heart will burst --
For it hath been by sorrow nurst,
  And ached in sleepless silence [long]1 --
And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,
  And break at once -- or yield to song.

The harp the monarch minstrel swept,
   The King of men, the loved of Heaven,
Which Music hallow'd while she wept
   O'er tones her heart of hearts had given,
   Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
It soften'd men of iron mould,
   It gave them virtues not their own;
No ear so dull, no soul so cold,
   That felt not, fired not to the tone,
   Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne!

It told the triumphs of our King,
   It wafted glory to our God;
It made our gladden'd valleys ring,
   The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
   Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode!
Since then, though heard on earth no more,
  Devotion and her daughter Love
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
   To sounds that seem as from above,
   In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome
I beheld thee, oh Sion, when rendered 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.

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-fettered hands that made vengeance in vain.

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine;

And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!

But the gods of the pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign;
And scattered and scorn'd as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father, is only for thee!

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray,
  On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray.
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep -
  Yet there even there - oh God! they thunder sleep:

There - where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone!
  There - where thy shadow to they people shone!
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire:
  Thyself - none living see and not expire!

Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear,
  Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear!
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod?
  How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God?

In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey,
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.

The song they demanded in vain -- it lay still
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill;
They call'd for the harp -- but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of our skill.

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be;
Our hands may be fetter'd -- our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory -- and, Sion! -- Oh, thee.