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By Mrs. M. Hartog.
No. V.
I.
Weep not as one from whom Hope hath departed,
Though sorrow’s dark mantle envelope thee now;
A time will arrive when the desolate-hearted
Will raise ‘mid the nations her diadem’d brow.
II.
Shall Zion for ever be shrouded in sable?
Shall her children for ever in exile remain?
Ah, no! like the phœnix of heathenish fable,
She will proudly arise from her ashes again.
III.
Though the mosque of the Turk and the church of the
Christian
Rear their heads on Moriah and Mount Olivet,
The Hand that was mighty to slay the Philistine
Will father the remnant of Israel yet.
IV.
Though thy bards have been silent, who pour’d forth
such numbers,
As when by the waters of Babel they wept,
The harp of Judea shall wake from its slumbers,
More sweet from the vigils of grief it hath kept.
V.
Then weep not as one from whom Hope hath departed,
Though sorrow’s dark mantle envelope thee now;
A time will arrive when the desolate-hearted
Shall raise ‘mid the nations her diadem’s brow.
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