Zion, our peaceful happy home,
Where oft we joined in praise and prayer,
A desolation has become,
And grief and sorrow linger there.
Her virgins sigh, her widows mourn,
Her children for their parents weep;
In chains her priests and prophets groan,
While some in deaths cold arms do sleep.
Exultingly her savage foes
Now ravage, steal and plunder, where
A virgin's, tears, a widow's woes,
Became their song of triumph there.
How long, O Lord, wilt thou forsake
The saints who tremble at thy word?
Awake, O arm of God, awake—
And teach the nations thou art God.
Descend with all thy holy throng,
The year of thy redeem'd bring near;
Haste—haste the day of vengeance on—
Bid Zion's children dry their tears.
Deliver, Lord, thy captive saints,
And comfort those who long have mourn'd;
Bid Zion cease her dire complaints,
And all creation cease to groan.
OUR COUNTRY.
AN EXTRACT.
WRITTEN IN PRISON.
Here nature too, her grandest works display;
Sublimest themes inspire the Poet's lays,
As if creative power in skill progressed,
As onward still it moved towards the west.