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Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah, could'st thou-thou would'st pardon now,
Though heaven were to my prayer unheeding.
And is she dead?-and did they dare
Obey my phrensy's jealous raving?
My wrath but doomed my own despair:
The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving.
But thou art cold, my murdered love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
For her who soars alone above,
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
She's gone, who shared my diadem;
She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
I swept that flower from Judah's stem
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming.
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
And I have earned those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming!
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF
JERUSALEM BY TITUS.
FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome I beheld thee, Oh SION! when rendered to Rome: 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
I looked for thy temple, I looked for my home,
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.