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