A wail for the battle they waged with the Lord.
9.
And they seem’d like the willows, that, left on the steep,
Are bent o’er the wreck of the forest to weep,
Or lilies that dripping, and drooping of form,
Shed tears o’er the broken, the spoil of the storm.
10.
Ye join not the wailing, ye dwellers of Zan!
Hath the death-angel spared ye, that smote as he ran?
Oh, the blood-sprinkled lintel hath stayed his proud reign,