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III. More blest each palm that shades those plains
Than Israel's scattered race;
In solitary grace:
But we must wander witheringly,
In other lands to die;
Our own may never lie:
OH! WEEP FOR THOSE.
OH! WEEP FÖR Those that wept by Babel's stream,
Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
ON JORDAN'S BANKS.
ON JORDAN'S BANKS the Arabs' camels stray,
There where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone!
Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear!
Since our Country, our God-Oh, my Sire!
And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
III. And of this, oh, my Father! be sureThat the blood of thy child is as pure As the blessing I beg ere it flo And the last thought that soothes me below.
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
V. When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, Let my memory still be thy pride, And forget not I smiled as I died!