HEARD ye from Rama's ruined walls,
That voice of bitter weeping?
Is it the moan, of fetter'd slave;
His watch, of sorrow, keeping?
Heard ye, from Rama's wasted plains,
That cry of lamentation?
Is it the wail of Israel's Sons,
For Salem's devastation?
Ah, no, a sorer ill, than chains,
That bitter wail, is waking;
And deeper woe, than Salem's fall,
That tortured heart is breaking:
'Tis Rachel, of her sons bereft;
Who lifts that voice of weeping;
And childless are the eyes, that there,
Their watch, of grief, are keeping.
Oh! who shall tell, what fearful pangs,
That mother's heart, are rending;
As o'er her infant's little grave,
Her wasted form, is bending;
From many an eye, that weeps to-day,
Delight may beam, to-morrow;
But she, her precious babe is not!
And what remains, but sorrow?
Bereaved One! I may not chide
Thy tears, and bitter sobbing;
Weep on! 't will cool that burning brow,
And still that bosom's throbbing;
But, be not thine, such grief as theirs,
To whom, no hope is given,
Snatched from the world, its sins and snares,
Thy infant rests, in Heaven.