would that the lightning had glared in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the Conqueror's head!
And the thunderbolt burst on the Conqueror's head!
Byron
And this dark heart is vainly craving[me]
For he who soars alone above,
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
III.
She's gone, who shared my diadem;
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 earned those tortures well,[mf]
Which unconsumed are still consuming!
_Jan. _ 15, 1815.
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS.
I.
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome,[mg]
I beheld thee, oh Sion! when rendered to Rome:[mh]
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
II.
I looked for thy temple--I looked for my home,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;[mi]
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in vain.
III.
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.
IV.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I marked 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! [mj]
V.
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdained not to reign;
And scattered and scorned as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.
1815.
BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN AND WEPT. [302]
I.
We sate down and wept by the waters[303]
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And Ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
II.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the Stranger shall know! [mk]
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
III.
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;[ml]
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the Spoiler by me!
_Jan.
