Next flies Eleazer to his native town, And lost to hope of wearing Judah’s crown, He mars his face, his fine wove garment rends, Then fires his palace, calls his weeping friends, And thus addresses them—“Now all is o’er, In vain my fighting, I can do no more; Him whom we crucify’d now mocks our woe, And gives our once proud city to the foe; In vain we strove, in vain their blood we’ve spilt, ’Tis ours to sin, and theirs to punish guilt, Then do not weep—but die—’tis all we can.”— He said,—and to his heart the weapon ran; Forth flies the darken’d gore in foaming streams, Around are heard deep groans and stifled screams, In suffocating volumes rolls the smoke, And all must die—each tie to earth is broke. They seize Eleazer’s sword, and at each breast They strike, and from their mortal sorrows rest; Freed from their pride, and from ambition’s lust, They, with their lordly palace, sink to dust. Meanwhile, the Romans having conquer’d all, And having kill’d till none was left to fall, Like hunters ride through ev’ry blood-wash’d street, Securing ev’ry valued prize they meet, Uncheck’d by Titus, who within his tent Thinks of his home, and gives his sorrows vent; Thinks of his promis’d joys for ever fled, For Jezra now is number’d with the dead. “Ill-fated, girl! (he cries) thy lot was hard, But who can now thy heav’nly steps retard? No Titus conquers there to mock thy love, No murd’ring rebels spoil thy peace above: But had’st thou liv’d thy charms had broke my vow, On thy smooth breast had sold my faith—but now, My hard-earn’d honor’s safe, and happy thou.” With this he opes the casket Jezra gave, And drops the silent tear, as on her grave; Gems, bars of gold, and glitt’ring ingots glow, And strike upon his sight in costly show; But these to him were now as gilded toys, For she is gone, and with her all his joys. A graven plate of gold soon meets his eyes, And o’er its sides with eager haste he flies: “To Titus—Roman, lover, friend, and king, Jezra no more thy martial deeds shall sing; No more, when hast’ning from the bloody plain, Shall be the first to share thy joy or pain; No more to wipe the sweaty drops away, And hear thee tell the fortunes of the day; No more will she thy glossy helm remove, And bid thee war forego—to talk of love; No more, when shines the moon, with thee she’ll roam, No more she’ll point thee to thy heav’nly home; No more the mercy of thy God she’ll show, And tell what Jesus suffer’d here below. But ah! if wounded to your tent you’re borne, And that proud form by gnawing anguish torn, Then look on these, poor Jezra’s dying gift, Think of her, and thy soul to heaven lift, Where now she dwells from ev’ry trouble free, Where she has fled from earth, from Jews, and thee.”