Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Israels Lament

Mourn, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn!        &nbspGive utterance to the inward throe! As wails, of her first love forlorn,        &nbspThe Virgin clad in robes of woe. Mourn the young Mother, snatch'd away        &nbspFrom Light and Life's ascending Sun! Mourn for the Babe, Death's voiceless prey,        &nbspEarn'd by long pangs and lost ere won. Mourn the bright Rose that bloom'd and went,        &nbspEre half disclosed its vernal hue! Mourn the green Bud, so rudely rent,        &nbspIt brake the stem on which it grew. Mourn for the universal woe        &nbspWith solemn dirge and fault'ring tongue: For England's Lady is laid low,        &nbspSo dear, so lovely, and so young! The blossoms on her Tree of Life        &nbspShone with the dews of recent bliss: Transplanted in that deadly strife,        &nbspShe plucks its fruits in Paradise. Mourn for the widow'd Lord in chief,        &nbspWho wails and will not solaced be! Mourn for the childless Father's grief,        &nbspThe wedded Lover's agony! Mourn for the Prince, who rose at morn        &nbspTo seek and bless the firstling bud Of his own Rose, and found the thorn,        &nbspIts point bedew'd with tears of blood. O press again that murmuring string!        &nbspAgain bewail that princely Sire! A destined Queen, a future King,        &nbspHe mourns on one funereal pyre. Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd,        &nbspHer daughters wail their dear defence; Their fair example, prostrate laid,        &nbspChaste Love and fervid Innocence. While Grief in song shall seek repose,        &nbspWe will take up a Mourning yearly: To wail the blow that crush'd the Rose,        &nbspSo dearly priz'd and lov'd so dearly. Long as the fount of Song o'erflows        &nbspWill I the yearly dirge renew: Mourn for the firstling of the Rose,        &nbspThat snapt the stem on which it grew. The proud shall pass, forgot; the chill,        &nbspDamp, trickling Vault their only mourner! Not so the regal Rose, that still        &nbspClung to the breast which first had worn her! O thou, who mark'st the Mourner's path        &nbspTo sad Jeshurun's Sons attend! Amid the Light'nings of thy Wrath        &nbspThe showers of Consolation send! Jehovah frowns! the Islands bow!        &nbspAnd Prince and People kiss the Rod!— Their dread chastising Judge wert thou!        &nbspBe thou their Comforter, O God!