And how, O Sion! how should I but weep, As on our fathers' tombs I fondly gazed, Or, wistfully, as turn'd mine eye To thee, in all thy desolate majesty, Hebron, where rests the mighty one in sleep, And high his pillar of renown was raised! There--in thine atmosphere--'twere blessedness To breathe a purer ether. Oh! to me Thy dust than perfumes dearer far should be, And down thy rocks the torrent streams should roam With honey in their foam! Oh, sweet it were--unutterably sweet-- Even though with garments rent, and bleeding feet, To wander over the deserted places Where once thy princely palaces arose, And 'mid the weeds and wild-flowers mark the traces, Where the ground, yawning in its earthquake throes, The ark of covenant and the cherubim Received, lest stranger hands, that reek'd the while With blood of thine own children, should defile Its heaven-resplendent glory, and bedim: And my dishevell'd locks, in my despair, All madly should I tear; And as I cursed the day that dawn'd in heaven-- The day that saw thee to destruction given, Even from my very frenzy should I wring A rough, rude comfort in my sorrowing. What other comfort can I know? Behold, Wild dogs and wolves with hungry snarl contend Over thy prostrate mighty ones; and rend Their quivering limbs, ere life hath lost its hold. I sicken at the dawn of morn--the noon Brings horror with its brightness; for the day Shows but the desolate plain, Where, feasting on the slain, (Thy princes,) flap and scream the birds of prey! Chalice from Marah's bitterest spring distill'd! Goblet of woe, to overflowing fill'd! Who, quaffing thee, can live? Give me but breath-- A single breath--that I once more may see The dreary vision. I will think of thee, Colla, once more--of Cliba will I think-- Then fearlessly and freely drink The cup--the fatal cup--whose dregs are death. Awake thee, Queen of Cities, from thy slumber-- Awake thee, Sion! Let the quenchless love Of worshippers, a number beyond number, A fountain of rejoicing prove. Thy sorrows they bewail, thy wounds they see, And feel them as their own, and mourn for thee! Oh, what were life to them, did Hope not hold Her mirror, to unfold That glorious future to their raptured sight, When a new morn shall chase away this night! Even from the dungeon gloom, Their yearning hearts, as from a tomb, Are crying out--are crying out to thee; And, as they bow the knee Before the Eternal, every one awaits The answer of his prayer, with face toward thy gates.