The Exile's Text

Weep ye not for the dead : they sleep
In hallowed slumbers, calm and deep ;
Their bed, the scenery of their birth,
The dust around them, Hebrew earth !

They cease — and yet bemoan them not :
Their tombs are in the blessed spot
Where hearth, and home, and altar stand,
With Aaron's shrine and Judah's land !

But weep ye sore for us : we go
Where rivers of the stranger flow,
And Gentile winds must bear along
The Lord's — the God of Jacob's song !

We travel to the graves unknown —
To die, in cities not our own ;
False feet our sepulchres will tread,
A breathing nation of the dead.

Bel's loathsome land ! and Nebo's sky !
Our flesh will shudder where we lie ; —
Bone to his bone will cleave and creep
From the vile earth around our sleep.

But they — the dead by Jordan's stream —
They hear those waters where they dream
The floods that fall by Abraham's cave,
And Rachel's tomb, and Isaac's grave !

Then mourn ye not for them : their sleep
Is pure and blessed, calm and deep ;
But grieve, yea, grieve for us : we go
Where rivers of the stranger flow !

No more ! no more ! oh, never more
The hills, the trees, the ocean-shore !
Ah ! Salem, Gilead, Lebanon,
The Lord, the Lord your God, is gone !