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.

Project Canterbury