Ezra III. 11–13

Hark ! what a shout I Alas ! it sounds but this,
Though the sad remnant like one man unite,
And the lorn widow brings her widow's mite.
Few are the tribes, and feeble is their din.
Subdued with memory of ancestral sin,
Opprest with conscience of a guilty fear
And faint distrust, and hope but half sincere.
That asks the end before they well begin
The holy renovation. Drear the tone
Of joyous hymns in trembling accents piped ;
And faces stain'd with selfish tears unwiped.
I'll emulate the upturn'd look that shone
In God's own light, what time the Cherubim
Made the first Temple's gilded glory dim.