.
.
On
the day of the destruction
of Jerusalem by Titus
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy
dome
I behold thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome;
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames
of thy fall
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy
wall.
I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance
in vain.
On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy
shrine.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh.' would that the lighting had glared in its
stead;
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's
head!
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign;
And scattered and scorn'd as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father, is only for thee.
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