Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned On many waters! thou, whose augurs read The language of the planets, and disown'd The mighty name it blazons!-Veil thy head, Daughter of Babylon! the sword is red From thy destroyers' harvest, and the yoke Is on thee, O most proud!-for thou hast said, "I am, and none beside !"-Th' Eternal spoke, Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke. But go thou forth, O Israel! wake! rejoice! Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day! Renew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice, The mirth of timbrels !-loose the chain, and say God hath redeem'd his people!—from decay The silent and the trampled shall arise; -Awake; put on thy beautiful array, Oh long-forsaken Zion!-to the skies Send up on every wind thy choral melodies! And lift thy head!-Behold thy sons returning, Redeem'd from exile, ransom'd from the chain! Light hath revisited the house of mourning; She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain Because her children were not-dwells again Girt with the lovely!—through thy streets once more, City of God! shall pass the bridal train, And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore! THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON. YES, it is ours!-the field is won, A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield! Let me not hear your trumpets ring, Swell not the battle-horn! Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne! Speak not of victory!-in the name There is too much of woe! Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame— Call me back his whose graceful head is low. Speak not of victory!-from my halls The sunny hour is gone! The ancient banner on my walls Must sink ere long-I had but him—but one! Within the dwelling of my sires The hearths will soon be cold, With me must die the beacon-fires That stream'd at midnight from the mountain-hold. And let them fade, since this must be, My lovely and my brave! Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me, And is there but for stately youth a grave? Speak to me once again, my boy! Wilt thou not hear my call? Thou wert so full of life and joy, I had not dreamt of this-that thou couldst fall! Thy mother watches from the steep For thy returning plume; How shall I tell her that thy sleep Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb? Thou didst not seem as one to die, With all thy young renown! -Ye saw his falchion's flash on high, In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down! |