The book of sacred song . 28 THE BOOK OF SACRED SONG. Sing ? play ? to whom, ah! shall we sing or play, If not, Jerusalem, to thee ?Ah ! thee Jerusalem; ah ! sooner mayThis hand forget the mastery Of musics dainty touch, than IThe music of thy memory. Which when I lose, oh may at once my tongue Lose this same busy speaking art,Unperchd, her vocal arteries unstrung,No more acquainted with my heart,On my dry palates roof to rest,A withered leaf, an idle guest! No, no, thy good, Sion, alone must crown The head of all my hope-nursed , Edom, cruel thou ! thou criedst, Down, down,Sink, Sion,
The book of sacred song . 28 THE BOOK OF SACRED SONG. Sing ? play ? to whom, ah! shall we sing or play, If not, Jerusalem, to thee ?Ah ! thee Jerusalem; ah ! sooner mayThis hand forget the mastery Of musics dainty touch, than IThe music of thy memory. Which when I lose, oh may at once my tongue Lose this same busy speaking art,Unperchd, her vocal arteries unstrung,No more acquainted with my heart,On my dry palates roof to rest,A withered leaf, an idle guest! No, no, thy good, Sion, alone must crown The head of all my hope-nursed , Edom, cruel thou ! thou criedst, Down, down,Sink, Sion, down, and never rise! Her falling thou didst urge and thrust,And haste to dash her into dust. Dost laugh ? proud Babels daughter ! Do, laugh on, Till thy ruin teach thee tears,Even such as these; laugh, till a venging throngOf woes too late do rouse thy fears. Laugh till thy childrens bleeding bonesWeep precious tears upon the stones. ELIZABETHAN: STUART. IT IS APPOINTED UNTO ALL MExN ONCETO DIE/ jlHE glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial thingsThere is no armour against fate :Death lays his icy hands on kings;Sceptre and crownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the plant fresh laurels where they kill;But their strong nerves at last must yield,They tame but one another or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath,When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon deaths purple altar now,See where the victor-victim bleeds !
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, booksubjectenglishpoetry, booksubjectreligiousp
